


I'm Not Afraid of God; I Am Afraid of Man

by Bara_no_Uta



Category: Demi Lovato: Path to Fame
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Established Relationship, F/F, Female Ryland - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Stalking, Trigger warnings in each chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bara_no_Uta/pseuds/Bara_no_Uta
Summary: The more she talks around the issue, the more afraid you feel about the severity of what it could be. You try not to let it on, but you’re not good at that like she is. You hear the anxiety in your voice, rising as you speak. “I don’t care about being dragged into it; Ryland, what’s wrong?!”Finally, she spins around to face you again. She looks almost angry as she finally confesses, “Someone is stalking me!” Her voice is a desperate cry. She hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, but all the fear she’s been hiding for weeks seems to burst out in that admission.Normally, no matter how patient you’re trying to be, you can’t help getting angry right back at someone who raises their voice at you. Not right now. In this moment, you’re stunned into silence.Ryland continues, impassioned. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to get you involved! I don’t want you to be put in danger because of me!”She’s all but begging for you to stay out of it, and even in your state of shock and fear for her safety you can tell that, but there’s absolutely no way you can abide by that.





	1. Give Me the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This project. Oh, my goodness. I started this project all the way back in... oh, 2015? Originally, it was planned out to be five chapters - how it's grown since then! I've written, revised, edited, and rewritten this story so many times to build it into what it has become. This is, both in terms of length of time working on it and word count, the longest thing I have ever created. Single-spaced in my Word document, it's 102 pages and more than 60,000 words. I'm very proud to have finished it.
> 
> After a lot of thought about how to balance the definite need for trigger warnings with not wanting to spoil things for people who do not want or need those, I have decided that trigger warnings will be posted at the END of each chapter - that way those who need them can simply click "see more notes" here and be prepared for what's to come, and those who feel comfortable and safe being caught by surprise can be. The one I won't warn about is stalking because that comes up in every chapter so it would just be redundant.

            Ryland has been avoiding you lately, and you don’t like it.

            Or at least, you think she has been. Fearful that you may simply be paranoid, you have yet to mention it to her. After all, there is the possibility that she really has just been busy, which is what she says almost immediately after answering your calls. Which she does do, pretty much immediately when you call, but only to hang up after less than a minute. You’ve been told before that you can be paranoid at times (never mind that, such as with the saboteur business, you’re often _right_ ), so you hesitate to jump to conclusions. Especially considering your history with Ryland – you want to be able to trust her, and you’re sure she would feel bad if you thought she was being dishonest and it wasn’t true.

            But the more you think about it, the more something just doesn’t add up. If she’s so busy, why does she answer your phone calls so quickly? Sure, she always says she has no time to talk, but that just seems weird. Who’s super busy but keeps such a close watch on their phone? It’s not like she’s ever been one to _ignore_ your calls – she always calls back when she gets a chance if she doesn’t answer when you call her – but it’s also pretty unusual for her to jump for her phone the second it starts ringing.

            You don’t know. Your best friend has been telling you that if you’re so worried, you should just talk to Ryland about it. You’ve been hesitating, but the more time that passes with Ryland acting odd like this, the more you think that your best friend might be right. It’s been a few _weeks_ since the two of you have had a real conversation, which is completely unprecedented in your relationship, especially when part of the reason Ryland wanted to stay in LA with the rest of the tour was to be with you. Surely she’s had some time to talk with you in the last few weeks? That is, assuming you were a priority to her, as you always have been. Or at least always have been until now… You’re not so sure anymore. It’s hard to feel secure in a relationship with you’re pretty sure you’re being avoided.

            Not only that, but you have no idea what she’s supposedly been so busy _with_ , because she always ends the call before you get a chance to ask. It just screams suspicious, right? Especially considering that it’s been about two months now since she first started acting distant. She denied it, of course, but you could tell. It was subtle, at first, but eventually you could tell she was really not herself. Maybe you were too pushy on asking about it and now she’s just pushing you away. You hope that’s all it is; you’re pretty sure your relationship is strong enough to handle that, once you get it in the open to deal with it.

            So, you have concluded, it’s true: You need to talk to her. There’s just no way around it; you need to know what’s going on. Despite your hopes that it’s just her pushing you away, you can’t help but to feel nervous. It’s giving you some déjà vu to your last relationship, in which you still think there was something suspicious going on with her and Sexy Kitten. Not that you think Ryland is cheating. You feel quite certain that she is faithful, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t hiding something. Being avoided rarely leads to good news, after all.

            But your best friend has been pretty insistent that there’s only one way to resolve things, and you know that she’s right. You’re afraid that if this continues, neither of you intervening to stop that from happening, there’s a chance it could end up leading to the two of you breaking up. And you don’t want that; not at all.

            Finally, you hit the call button. You’re nearly positive that she’ll answer, but you know you’ll have to act fast to get out what you want to say before she ends the call. Your first suspicion is soon confirmed. “Ryland?”

            She says your name back. Her tone is hard to read, as is usually the case. You can’t even tell if she’s happy to hear from you or not. If she wasn’t, it would only make sense that she wouldn’t answer the phone… but again, if she was, it would really only be logical for her to actually want to talk to you. …And that was why you needed to have a serious conversation about this.

            You’re determined to get words in before she ends the call. Unfortunately, tact has never been your strong suit, causing you simply to blurt out, “We need to talk.”

            Well, that certainly leaves no questions as to why you’re calling. Ryland hesitates, taking in a slow, silent breath as she bides time, trying to come up with a satisfactory response. “About?” she finally asks. It’s a completely pointless question, and she is well aware of that. Her heartbeat has quickened as she tries to come up with an explanation to offer.

            Does she sound nervous? You’re sure it’s your imagination, because you know _you’re_ sure nervous right now. But Ryland… You’ve really never seen her nervous, you realize. You haven’t been in many situations that would prompt her to be, either, but… still, it seems hard to imagine that she’s someone who is easily put on edge.

            You know that you can’t just put off giving an answer to her question. You would really rather have the conversation in person, but you don’t want to make her drop everything and drive over, worried about what you’re going to say. Better to at least give her some idea of what you’ve been thinking about. “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me lately.”

            There is a long pause, and your anxiety seems to rise with every moment. Why is she taking so long to respond? Like being avoided, long pauses like this are really never a good sign. It’s confirmation that she has, in fact, been avoiding you, right? And for reasons you’re not going to like hearing?

            But after what feels like forever, Ryland finally replies. Her voice sounds measured. Cautious. “Do not worry. It is not anything about you, or us. I have…” She stops abruptly. “It is nothing.”

            Frustration bubbles up amidst the nerves at her blatant lie. Your tone is forcibly even as you try to conceal that frustration, well aware that an angry confrontation over the phone would be all but your worst-case scenario. Certainly, it would lead to nothing but both of you ending up hurt – that’s something you’ve learned from experience. You’d like to avoid having to re-learn that lesson. “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be avoiding me.”

            Ryland is, as tends to be the case, quick to recover. Quick to come up with an excuse. A twinge of guilt nags at her, reminding her of her promise not to lie to you anymore, but the words still come. “What I mean is, it is nothing to do with my feelings for you. You need not worry, Mon Amour. I have simply been taking some time for myself lately.”

            That doesn’t really make you less worried, though. Instead, now you’re just worried about Ryland herself as opposed to being worried about your relationship with her. It’s really not an improvement! “Is everything okay?” you ask, all the frustration evaporated, leaving nothing but concern in its place.

            She hesitates for so long that you aren’t sure whether she’s actually going to answer the question or not. But really, such a long silence is an answer in and of itself. “Then that means no,” you say after waiting a few more seconds to see if she would respond. “What’s wrong?”

            She silently curses the pesky conscience she has developed thanks to you. Before she had met you – no, even after that point, before your talk, on that day she hurt you so badly – she would have had no problem with telling you that everything was fine. After all, someone would only be hurt by a lie if it was discovered, and she had become quite a skilled liar over the course of her lifetime. But now, all her instincts to lie have become shrouded in guilt about how she hurt you that day, and worry that you might somehow find out after all.

            But Ryland _really_ does not want to answer this question. She can’t lie, but neither does she feel she can tell the truth right now. Then what is she to say? She’s painfully aware that there’s only so long she can avoid the question.

            She’s so quiet that you almost start to wonder if the call could have dropped or something. The timing for that would be a little too suspect for an accident, though. Neither did you hear the call end tone. That’s what you remind yourself of as you forbid yourself from moving the phone away from your ear to check; you don’t want to miss her response, assuming she’s still on the line. When – if? – she does actually respond at all.

            Eventually, you do check: “Are you still there?”

            “Oui. Still here.” Her voice is quiet, and after she has answered that, she returns to her previous silence. You decide to wait a while longer, and after a few seconds she finally offers something of a reply to your previous question. “May I come over?”

            “Yeah, of course. You know you’re always welcome here.” And luckily, your best friend is sleeping over at Dante’s tonight, which means you and Ryland will have some privacy in which to talk. More than anything else, right now you’re relieved that Ryland seems to be willing to talk to you about whatever is going on. There’s nothing you won’t be able to figure out, or at least get through, together – you feel certain of that.

            She makes a soft sound of confirmation. “Alright. I will be there soon.”

            “Okay, I’ll be here.”

            “A bientôt,” she says. Without waiting for a reply, she ends the call.

            You sit down on the couch to wait, but soon stand up, feeling jittery as nerves begin to fill you. Yes, you’re extremely glad that she’s willing to talk to you about it. But the fact that she sees it as something that needs to be discussed in person is really not a reassuring sign. That must mean it’s really serious, right? To move the conversation from phone to in person?

            You start to wish your best friend _was_ here, because at least she would be able to help you stop freaking out, which you very much are. You even consider calling her, but… yeah, considering she’s spending the night at Dante’s, she’s probably busy. Or ‘busy.’ Either way, you don’t want to interrupt only to end the call abruptly when Ryland arrives. Or have her call back when you’re talking to Ryland and get worried when you don’t answer. So probably better to wait this out on your own, but… you _really_ hope Ryland arrives soon.

            The other thing is, in addition to the fact that it’s obviously something serious… It’s something serious enough to upset _Ryland_. Even though you’ve only known each other for a handful of months, you certainly know that she really isn’t someone who gets upset easily. In fact, with the exception of after that post-interview incident, you’ve never really seen her noticeably upset about anything.

            You try to think back and remember if there was anything that had happened right before she started distancing herself that could perhaps give you some inkling as to what is going on. But the fact of the matter is, she’s been doing it for too long for that, and it’s been a gradual progression. You know more or less when you finally noticed, but you’re not sure when exactly it began. You’re sure that something must have happened, but nothing comes to mind as to what. Not to mention, it’s entirely possible that you weren’t there and she hasn’t told you about it, which would make guessing rather difficult, to say the least.

            You wish you had asked her about it weeks ago, when you had very first started to notice her acting somewhat distant. You had held back on doing so in case it was just your imagination, because you didn’t want to come off as paranoid or something, as you’ve been called in the past. But now… If she hasn’t talked to you about it, you can only assume she hasn’t talked about it with anyone else, either. She’s told you that opening up to people is really difficult for her. In other words, she’s probably been bottling up the issue for weeks. Your heart aches at the thought.

            You know that the “blame” isn’t entirely on you. One could definitely say that you should have spoken up, and you certainly feel that way right now. But you also wish Ryland had talked to you about it sooner. At least given you some indication that there was something for you to ask about. Even if you do think she could have done that, however, it still hurts to think about her facing whatever serious issue is happening all alone. She shouldn’t have to go through that.

            It seems like an eternity until Ryland finally arrives, although it’s really something more like fifteen minutes. You only realize upon hearing her knock at the door that you’ve ended up standing right next to the door, as though the few seconds it would have taken you to come over from the couch or something would have made a significant difference in something. You don’t care how silly that idea seems right now, though – more than anything else, you’re just really glad she’s finally here, allowing you to talk about whatever is going on.

            When you open the door Ryland looks as collected as ever. You have the quite unhappy thought that had it not been for your exchange on the phone, you wouldn’t even know anything was bothering her. But thankfully, you did have that exchange, so you do know, so maybe there’s something you can do to help. At least listening.

            She comes in, and you close the door. Then, the two of you just… look at each other, each waiting to see if the other will speak first. Hoping for that to be the case. Ryland doesn’t hold your eye contact for long, though, and you don’t fail to notice how unusual that is.

            Since she doesn’t exactly seem inclined to volunteer information, you decide to prompt a little. “What’s wrong?” you ask again.

            After a moment of unease, visible only in her gaze remaining on the wall instead of you, Ryland turns her back to you. You feel frustrated again that she won’t just talk to you about whatever it is, but you try to suppress that once again. She came because she’s willing to at least try to talk to you. It’s just really hard for her, right? Maybe she’s doing the best she can. That thought instills more patience in you, even as you really wish she could get to the point. Your worry has calmed slightly now that she’s here, in front of you, but it certainly hasn’t gone away. You just want to know what’s going on so you can do something about it!

            “I just want to help,” you remind her. You’re sure it goes without saying, and so she almost certainly already knows that, but if she’s struggling with opening up, you hope that perhaps the reminder will make it a little easier.

            “I know,” she says, her voice giving away none of her emotions, “but you can’t.”

            No matter how neutral her tone sounds, you’re sure that that isn’t reflective of her actual feelings. And even if she says there’s nothing I can do about it… “Even if I can’t change anything, I can still listen and support you.” Helping someone doesn’t only mean changing the situation, even if that is sometimes what would be ideal. Sometimes it’s just… ensuring they don’t have to go through it alone.

            “It’s better if I don’t say anything.”

            She sounds so matter-of-fact about it, and it really doesn’t make any sense to you. You can’t even tell anymore if she wants to talk about it or if she just came over to try to get you to stop asking about it or something. Both seem equally likely, all things considered.

            The truth is, even she isn’t really sure which it is. Ryland definitely hopes, when she thinks about it through her usual logical filter, to convince you to stop asking about it and wait it out. As strongly as that part of her objects, however… she cannot say that there is no part of her that doesn’t want to talk to you about it. Nobody wants to endure hardship by themselves, and Ryland is no exception. Knowing how much you care, and how much you seem to _want_ her to talk to you, it begins to feel difficult to keep the “logical” side winning.

            For a few long seconds, Ryland doesn’t answer. “I really… really do not want to drag you into this,” she says. It’s like her last stand, trying to remind even herself of her conviction until now that she would keep you from getting involved.

            The more she talks around the issue, the more afraid you feel about the severity of what it could be. You try not to let it on, but you’re not good at that like she is. You hear the anxiety in your voice, rising as you speak. “I don’t care about being dragged into it; Ryland, what’s wrong?!”

            Finally, she spins around to face you again. She looks almost angry as she finally confesses, “Someone is stalking me!” Her voice is a desperate cry. She hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, but all the fear she’s been hiding for weeks seems to burst out in that admission.

            Normally, no matter how patient you’re trying to be, you can’t help getting angry right back at someone who raises their voice at you. Not right now. In this moment, you’re stunned into silence.

            Ryland continues, impassioned. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to get you involved! I don’t want you to be put in danger because of me!”

            She’s all but begging for you to stay out of it, and even in your state of shock and fear for her safety you can tell that, but there’s absolutely no way you can abide by that. “And so you’d rather be in danger all by yourself instead of letting me help you?!” Your voice has gone up as well. Not in anger, but in sheer emotionality.

            “Yes, actually!” she retorts without hesitation. “What do you think you’re going to be able to do?! You can’t stop them, I can’t stop them, so all I wanted to do was at least try to keep you safe!”

            “Maybe we can’t stop them by ourselves, but at least together we can figure something out!” You desperately want to hold onto that belief. That somehow, as long as you’re _together_ , you can work it out. That has to be the case, right? The alternative, being completely powerless, is too painful to even consider a real possibility.

            “Something like what?!” she demands. “Call the police and have the media all over it, and they probably won’t even be able to figure out who it is?! Have body guards and hope that they could actually stop anything from happening, which they probably couldn’t anyway?!” She’s nearly yelling now.

            You have often wished your temper wasn’t what it is, and right now it’s getting the best of you as well. Your volume rises steadily, topping hers. “So instead you would rather not do anything?! They’re not just going to go away if you don’t do anything! Ryland, this is serious!” You’re just… so afraid, for her sake. And if you were in a place to be at all rational right now, you would know that raising your voice at her was most certainly not going to be helpful in any way, shape, or form. But right now, in this moment, you just can’t help yourself.

            “ ** _You think I don’t know that?!_** ”

            The force with which she speaks makes you stop, unable to come anywhere near formulating a reply. It’s like you can hear in those words just how afraid she has been, and how painful it’s been for her to keep it entirely to herself. For weeks.

            For once, Ryland is the one who can’t stop herself from continuing on. There’s a part of her that’s aware that she’s continuing and wants desperately to stop it, but it isn’t able to take over and actually bring that to fruition. “I’ve been in the public eye since before I was even born – I _know_ what those kinds of people can do! I _know_ the dangers that come with it! And I know what they’ve _threatened_ to do!” She absolutely loathes the tears that she can feel stinging at the corners of her eyes, and yet it is becoming more and more difficult to maintain her front of anger. Seeming angry feels at least slightly safer to her than seeming… vulnerable, which is something she wants to avoid more than almost anything. But by the time she speaks again, her voice has quieted to a normal speaking volume. “I didn’t want to bring you into this. I didn’t want you to be scared. I didn’t want to do anything that would put you in more danger…”

            “Ryland…” It’s all you can manage to say. Your throat feels tight with empathy. You want so badly to reassure her: To tell her that you’ll figure things out, and it’ll be alright. That everything will be okay. But the truth is, you don’t know that. You would love more than anything right now to be able to say that you’ll be able to protect her and won’t let anything else bad happen to her, but you know, if you’re to be honest with yourself, that she’s exactly right. There’s almost nothing you can do.

            She has turned her back to you again, her hands clenched into fists as she fights back her emotions. You come closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. When she doesn’t pull away or show any signs of aversion to it, you wrap your arm around her. She leans slightly into you, one hand relaxing and resting on your arm. You can feel her taking intentionally slow breaths, collecting herself.

            You don’t know what to say, or even if there’s anything you _can_ say. You feel her relax a little more and hug her a bit closer. As long as the two of you remain in silence like this, you don’t have to acknowledge the full gravity of how futile any efforts you might make to do anything about the situation could very well be. No matter what you try, you both know that there are too many terrifying ‘what if’s. But even if there are gaps in any plan, you feel certain that it’s better than not doing anything at all.

            You realize, as you calm as well and think it over, that Ryland mentioned threats. You really feel like knowing the contents of those might be important, but at the same time, you can’t bring yourself to try to make her talk about them. You’ve never been threatened, but even simple common sense tells you how terrifying it must be.

            Even with all the doubt, though, there is one thing you’re certain of. “No matter what happens, I’m here. I love you, Ryland.”

            She hugs your arms. “I love you, too.”

            You linger a while longer, but after that you step back, hoping she’ll turn to face you. After a moment, she does so, and you gather yourself. “Okay, we need to figure out what to do about this. We can’t just, you know, do nothing.”

            “What do you propose we do?” Her voice definitely sounds harsh, but you know it’s just because of her stress and fear.

            You look away, wishing you had a good answer. “I don’t know. Go to the police?” It feels woefully inadequate, but it’s all you can come up with.

            “I already told you, I don’t want to involve the police. If they get involved, the press will be all over it. I don’t want to get a reputation as…” She trails off. Part of it is that she doesn’t want to admit what she feels like this makes her, but honestly, even if she was willing to, she can’t figure out how to put it into words.

            You want to just be able to guess where she was going with that so you don’t have to try to force her to open up more than she’s comfortable with, because god knows she’s under enough pressure as it is, but you can’t. And it’s awfully hard to reassure someone without knowing what you’re reassuring them about, so you don’t feel like you really have any other choice. “A reputation as what?”

            “I don’t know,” she admits. She thinks it over, trying to come up with something. “A coward. Someone who can’t handle her own problems.” It doesn’t quite fully explain her feelings, but it’s the closest she can get right now.

            You can’t help but to be surprised by that. Though… sadly, she might not be wrong about the media potentially portraying her that way. Or as some damsel in distress. Of course nobody would want to be portrayed that way. Still, you’re worried that she might actually be feeling that way about herself right now. It’s hard to imagine that she would possibly feel that way, because this is _Ryland_ you’re talking about, who’s confident to the point of being conceited at times, but you can’t shake the nagging thought that it’s still a possibility. “Well, you’re not a coward or anything like that for seeking help for a potentially dangerous situation, and there’s only so much a person can do by themselves. Police exist for a reason, you know?”

            “ _I_ know that,” she says, although you suspect that’s what she’d say whether it’s true or not. And, in fact, your suspicions are entirely correct. She’s good at putting up a front, but the truth is, she _does_ think less of herself for not being able to handle this on her own. For being afraid. There’s a part of her that knows perfectly well how irrational that is, but it doesn’t change how she feels. She doesn’t want to compound the perceived weakness by admitting it, though. “But you know how the media gets. News reports will have me look like I’m cowering at my own shadow.”

            Would they really go that far? But really, you have no idea. The press can be absolutely vicious, so she could very well be right. Even so, you think it to be the best solution. “Okay, so worst case scenario of talking to the police is your reputation takes a hit. But the—” You stop, unable to bring yourself to voice the potential worst case scenario of the alternative. “It’s way better than the worst case scenarios of not doing anything about this,” you settle on. You don’t mean to freak her out or anything, but anyway, there’s no way she isn’t already keenly aware of the existence of those worst case scenarios. You’re sure you’re not bringing up anything she hasn’t thought of before.

            “My reputation is important,” she reminds you. It’s absolutely crucial to her. But despite those words, she can’t help weighing the potential costs of each, and it’s painfully clear which is the safer choice. “But not more important than my life or yours. Alright… I don’t have any choice, do I?”

            The question is clearly rhetorical, so you try to offer something like a smile and reach for her hand. You take it in your own, intertwining your fingers. But there’s still something bothering you that you really feel you need to know. Tentatively, you speak up. “By the way, you mentioned threats…” Your implication being a clear question as to what the threats said, but you hesitate to outright state the question.

            “Yes,” is her plain reply. She’s not inclined to volunteer information, especially about this. It’s terribly distressing to think about, and even more so to think about repeating.

            And you can hardly blame her for being hesitant to talk about it. That doesn’t mean you think it isn’t as important, though, so despite feeling bad for doing so, you ask outright this time. “Will you tell me what kinds of threats?”

            “I would prefer not to,” she admits. After a moment of thought and resignation, she continues. “But I suppose I will have to tell the police everything, so the media will probably know everything before too long. And I would much prefer you hear it from me than them.” She gives a silent sigh.

            You hate to think that the media is going to be all over this. The fact that at some point they’re probably going to try to make her to talk about it. And it’s true, who knows what they’re going to say about her. It’s certain, too, that when they find out… well, they’ve never respected celebrities’ privacy before. You can’t exactly imagine they would suddenly start now.

            After a while, Ryland forces herself to explain. Her gaze remains fixed on the wall, avoiding looking at you. “It’s… They threaten to kill me, or… force me to be with them. But they have started sometimes threatening you, as well. I do not want to go into details, but… the letters are gruesome.” She doesn’t want to continue, but again, she knows she’ll have to tell everything to the police. It’s better to tell you now than having you find out through someone else – that’s what she’s holding onto. “But they have also sent me… other things. Explicit drawings of me.” Her voice lowers, as though she can barely bring herself to continue, and you notice her hands trembling slightly. “I– I…” She takes a deep breath, steadying herself and strengthening her resolve. “I am not always alive in those drawings.”

            You shudder, fear crawling down your spine. You want to ask her again why she didn’t come to you about this, so that maybe you could help, but she’s already said it. She was trying not to do anything that would put you in danger. …Though, if you were already being threatened, and she hadn’t told you, you can’t help but to think that she didn’t go about it the right way. Even so, her intentions were good. And most importantly, she was telling you now. But… she must have been so _scared_. It’s rare for her to show her feelings like she is now, and in this moment, you can really tell how afraid she has been. “How long has this been going on?”

            “I began getting… odd love letters in the mail a couple of months ago. Things… steadily worsened from there. I do not know when exactly.”

            Months. This has been going on for _months_ , and she’s been dealing with it all alone? Even now, you can tell she’s trying to hide her fear as best she can, but common sense tells you she must be terrified. “Okay… How about, stay the night here, and you or we can go to the police in the morning?” You’ll feel better with her here, where you can pretend like you’re actually able to protect her. Not to mention that it’s dark out, and under the circumstances, you don’t like the idea of her going out alone when it’s dark out.

            “You’re probably safer with me not here,” she says quietly.

            You know that you can’t really disagree with that, but that isn’t going to change your mind. “And you’re probably safer with me. Plus, I don’t want you to have to go back home by yourself when it’s dark out.” You give her hand a small squeeze. “So stay?”

            She is reluctant, but after some thought, she acquiesces. “…Okay.”

            Uncertain though her agreement seems, you decide to take it as agreement enough for now.

            The two of you decide to spend the rest of the evening cuddling and watching your favorite movies in an attempt to get your minds off the situation, but Ryland falls asleep half an hour into the first movie you had picked. It’s not even 7, but you’re sure she mustn’t be sleeping well lately, so you’re not surprised. You wish you were physically strong enough to pick her up and carry her into your room, since beds are so much more comfortable than sofas, but there’s no way that’s true. Instead, you turn down the volume and watch movies until you’re tired enough to sleep too, knowing if you tried right now you would just keep thinking about what’s happening. When you start to feel sufficiently sleepy, you turn off the television and lay down, bringing her to lie down as well. You can’t reach to turn off the light without getting up and risking waking Ryland, but you close your eyes and manage to fall asleep like this.


	2. I Need You Next to Me

            You and Ryland are sitting across from a police officer, who’s taking notes. You just came along in support of her, since you haven’t received anything yourself. But you can’t just make her go alone… You’ve been holding her hand the whole time, occasionally rubbing the top of it with your thumb when she has to disclose particularly difficult things. To tell the truth, the officer seems kind of skeptical, which you really hope is a misreading on your part. Ryland’s composure is flawless as always – almost always – so she doesn’t look like the terrified victim one might expect. You know that she must be terrified, especially to have even seen hints of her fear last night, but right now there are no hints at all. Putting up a façade in front of others when upset is second nature to her, and you’re starting to guess that, but the officer doesn’t know that about her. All he knows is that she’s claiming she’s going through this terrible thing while displaying nothing but neutrality.

            “So you’ve never seen the culprit… Do you currently have any of these letters or drawings in your possession?” he asks.

            “Of course not. Why would I want to keep those?” She also adds quietly, “I shredded them.” She just couldn’t stand having them around, but if she threw them in the trash or recycling, somebody could find them. And she really didn’t want that.

            Your heart sinks, and you grip her hand a little tighter. You know exactly why she would want to keep them, and so you’re nearly positive you know exactly what’s coming next.

            Sure enough, he lets his notepad fall closed. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lumière, but with no proof of these allegations, there’s nothing we can do.”

            You want to cry out, ‘ _That’s bullshit!_ ’ but you manage to hold back. You feel as though Ryland needs you to stay strong for her right now. You can see a flash of fear in her eyes, then of disappointment, before finally settling on resignation.

            “I see. I understand,” she says, her tone still even.

            “There’s really nothing you can do?” You ask, trying to keep your tone calm, although not quite succeeding. “You can’t even just… I don’t know, increase patrols in the area?”

            “Not as long as I don’t have any proof. If you get any more letters, or have further reason to believe you’re in danger, I encourage you to come by again or give us a call.”

            He’s dismissing you, you realize. Ryland begins to stand, so you follow suit. Without another word, the two of you leave.

            When you get back to the car, you check in with her. “How are you holding up?” You know better than to ask ‘Are you okay.’ You know she’s not.

            “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she admits. “Can we just get to my house?”

            Her tone and expression give away nothing, but something about the words themselves… You can’t quite place it. Resignation? Exhaustion? Disappointment? You’re not sure. Either way, though, her evading the question gives a clear answer. Not a detailed one, no, but still: ‘ _Not entirely well,_ ’ if nothing else. It’s not hard to guess why. Not only was the situation so horrible to begin with, but she was entirely brushed off by the police, after having had to work up the courage to talk to them in the first place. Moreover, any hope she might have had that they could do something to protect her has just been crushed. You don’t know what to do but hope that if something else happens, she’ll be willing to try again.

            You drive back to her house, or more specifically the one she’s subletting while in LA until the next lag of the tour starts. You feel uncomfortable to leave her there alone, but you know that it is true you can’t stay by her side 24/7, no matter how much you wish you could. Ryland is silent the entire drive, head against the headrest and looking out the side window.

            When you arrive in her driveway, you quickly spot a box on her doorstep. Instincts and common sense in this situation tell you that it’s going to be something bad. You almost want to prevent her from seeing it, but you’re sure it’s already too late for that. When you’re out of the car and she’s opened the door to her house, all you can do is look at it nervously. It’s just a regular cardboard box, but part of it looks… wet? No, not exactly. More like discolored, somehow? You can’t put your finger on it, but it makes you feel uneasy. There’s no address on it, so it clearly was put there in person and not through the mail system. But most chillingly of all is the note written on top, in heavy strokes with a red marker.

            **I TOLD YOU NOT TO SEE HER ANYMORE**

            That’s all it says. The fact that it’s so vague only serves to make it more unsettling, and it really makes no—

            _You could swear you just heard movement from inside the box._

            “Scissors,” Ryland says. She’s trying to keep her voice even, but the unease sneaks through in hints of urgency. “Next to the silverware drawer.”

            Despite how much she doesn’t say, you can easily figure out what she means, and you quickly go inside. She must have heard the movement too, which means… you _really_ need to see what’s inside. Though it was sealed in a way that she could probably open it with her nails or a key, it’s easier with scissors. So you hurry into the kitchen, going to the drawer next to the silverware drawer and taking the scissors—

            Ryland shrieks.

            You leave the door open, scissors still in hand as you run back to her, just in time to see her throw the box into the driveway. It lands with a thump of small weight – something light, but more than the weight of an empty box. It lands with its bottom facing you, so you can’t see any contents, but you can see the entire bottom of it is covered with that ‘sort of wet’ look. And then you see a mouse scurry out of the box.

            Its fur is unmistakably matted with blood.

            You feel like throwing up, but you turn to Ryland, far more concerned about her reaction.

            She’s shaking, tears falling and breath coming a little too quickly. Since both of you are standing inside the house, you close the door, getting the box out of sight. Then, you put your hands on her shoulders, staying as calm as you can manage. “Take deep breaths,” you murmur.

            She doesn’t say anything, but you can see that she is attempting to follow your advice. Her breaths come out uneven, as though they are cut off too quickly, but neither of you can come up with anything else to try to help her. The only other thing you can think of is to open your arms a little, offering a hug.

            She doesn’t hesitate at all this time, pressing into you. You’ve never seen her like this… never would have thought it would be _possible_ to see her like this… and you can feel tears welling in your eyes. All you can do is try your hardest not to let them fall so you don’t burden her. You’re just overwhelmed with how incredibly _helpless_ you are in all of this. Sure, you can hold her like this, and maybe it will help her feel a little safer for that time. But other than that, there’s really nothing you can do to help her. You can’t make the police listen.

            Wait. Yes, you can. There’s no way this isn’t proof of stalking, right? Or maybe not stalking, but definitely that there’s something really unsafe going on, here. And as long as that absolute bastard didn’t wear gloves, they should be able to get fingerprints from the box, right? You’ve never felt this type of pure loathing toward someone, but you certainly feel it toward this stalker.

            Ryland’s trembles have stopped, but the tears in her eyes have started to fall. It’s the first time she’s cried over this. Certainly, she hasn’t felt safe enough to allow herself that weakness. Even now, she has no delusions of being in real safety, but with your arms around her, she’s able to delude herself, just for now, into believing otherwise. Not that she wants to allow herself to cry. She hates it and sees it as nothing but weak. She just can’t help it right now.

            Your heart aches to see Ryland in so much pain, and all the more because there’s almost nothing you can do to help her. You don’t know what was in that box – you can guess, but you don’t know the extent of the gore – but what you do know is that she must have just seen something incredibly traumatizing. You have to do your best to block out the memory of the mouse yourself, and to suppress a shudder at just the thought of it and the box, which you now realize to have been discolored due to _blood_. Enough to soak all the way through the bottom of the cardboard. And you’re not even the one who had to see the creatures that had been bleeding in the first place. You rub her back, hoping to give her something to focus on other than the awful sight.

            _I can’t take this anymore_ , Ryland thinks, a desperate plea for someone – something, if there is _any_ higher power out there – to put an end to this stalking. But at the same time, she knows nobody on Earth is able to stop it, and she doesn’t really know that she believes any higher power can or will help her, either. The police won’t protect her, and she couldn’t think of anyone else she could turn to who had any power at all to do anything. They could kill her. They could _kill_ her, and they could kill you, too. She presses closer into you, though even she isn’t sure what she’s seeking. There’s no way for her to truly feel safe or comforted right now. Not about this.

            Even though she isn’t voicing her thoughts, you can tell how distressed she is, or at least some of it. You can feel the almost needy way she clings to you and a few tears fall onto the crook of your neck, where her face is hiding. At the very least, though, you’re finally able to offer her some degree of reassurance, hopefully. “There’s no way the police won’t listen to us now. As soon as you feel ready, we can give them a call. I’m sure that they’ll do something after this! And, there should be fingerprints on the box. Whichever ones aren’t yours, we’ll know are the culprit’s!”

            What if the police still don’t listen? What if the culprit was wearing gloves? What if the police aren’t enough? Those are the thoughts that plague her, and which she doesn’t dare speak. Besides, what reason is there to state them? She knows you won’t be able to reassure her. All it would do was expose even more weakness.

            You wait a while for her to say something before realizing that she isn’t going to. You wish so badly that you could reassure her – to tell her that both of you will be safe – but you can’t lie. You can’t even promise her that the police will be of any help. There’s only one truthful promise you can make: “I’m here.”

            “Which puts you in danger,” she replies without hesitation. She really does wonder if it would have been better not to tell you anything.

            You know you can’t really argue with that, which is frightening for you, too. But even if it does put you in danger, you’re glad to know. Even if there isn’t much at all you can do… “Yeah, but I’m not letting you go through this alone.”

            She hugs you tighter. You want so badly to protect her… You want to protect yourself, too, but you can’t help but to think that she must be in more danger than you right now. Especially considering that you almost always have your best friend nearby, while Ryland… Ryland lives all alone. You even consider inviting Ryland to stay with you for the time being, because you’re sure your friend would understand under the circumstances, but realistically speaking, you know that might just invite more trouble. The last thing you want to do is put anyone in more danger by further angering the stalker. You want to stay by her side no matter what, but you also don’t want to risk things escalating. After what the stalker did today, you don’t dare think about what could happen if it escalated, and you’re sure Ryland is thinking the same thing.

            It seems a long time that the two of you stay like that, Ryland trying to stop her tears and you trying not to cry right along with her. But after a while, she does calm. Neither of you move for a while longer, but then Ryland does, averting her eyes.

            Gently, you wipe the tearstains from her cheeks. You can see that she isn’t happy to be seen like this – you interpret it as embarrassment, but the truth is that she feels utterly humiliated. You can’t imagine why she would feel embarrassed, because you’re pretty sure most people would freak out way more under these circumstances, especially after seeing what she did. But in Ryland’s eyes, it doesn’t matter what she saw. She doesn’t tolerate any weakness in herself, or at least not expressed.

            “I am fine now,” she says, due to her own stubbornness and humiliation. You know she’s not, despite the fact that her composure is somehow already back up. But how could she be fine? You wish she were, but you don’t think either of you is really going to be fine until the stalker is behind bars, which you tell yourself _will_ happen. It _has_ to.

            “Do you want to call the police? They can deal with the…” You hesitate, not knowing how to refer to it. “That,” is what you eventually decide on. The box. Police officers are, you hope, more emotionally equipped to deal with a sight like that, so they can take it as evidence themselves. If it were a letter or picture or something, you would probably think it better to bring it to the station yourselves so the police down attract attention by coming here, but you don’t want her to have to see it again, and you also really don’t want to see it yourself.

            “…Box of dead mice,” Ryland tells you. Her voice seems completely calm, but really, there’s almost a sort of numbness about it as she can’t bring herself to really process the sight. Somehow, though, she doesn’t want to sidestep it.

            At that information, you can’t suppress your shudder, the memory of even just what you saw becoming even more disturbing. You feel a little guilty, because you’re not even the one who saw the extent of the gore, but really, you don’t think there’s anyone who wouldn’t have some sort of visceral reaction to that.

            “I suppose you are right. That we should call them.” Without further ado, she gets out her phone and makes the call. Soon, she’s able to get transferred to the officer from earlier. Both of you are utterly frustrated with him, but he already knows the story, and she really does not want to have to explain it all over again.

            Soon, the tell-tale elevator music of being put on hold comes on. “On hold?” you ask, just to confirm.

            She nods in confirmation, not bothering to hide hints of her exasperation. Are all American police officers like this? But all she can do is wait… and wait… “Pourquoi est-ce si lent?” she complains under her breath.

            You don’t know what she said, but you can guess the sentiment, and you can certainly relate. Being on hold is frustrating under the best of circumstances, but right now it’s made even worse by your anxiety. How will the conversation go? What will he say, and what will the police be able to do? They’ll be able to do something now, right?

            Finally, though, he actually answers the call. As Ryland talks to him, you can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but of course, you can hear her perfectly clearly. That there was a box, that it had a note, that there was a live mouse, and… several brutally killed ones. You’re amazed by how completely calm and collected she seems, much like when you were at the station. But now there’s actual evidence, which surely the officer can’t just ignore.

            When the conversation has finished, she relays the results to you. “He and a couple of other officers are on their way.” After a moment of pause, she adds, “He did not give me a chance to say anything, but I sincerely hope they have enough common sense to use discretion instead of coming in a regular police car.”

            You almost open your mouth to tell her she shouldn’t worry about the media, but you think better of it. Even if it isn’t anywhere near as important as safety, you know firsthand how much it can hurt when the media has nothing but bad things to say about you, and you know that Ryland is even more concerned about what the media says about her than you are. Not to mention, the paparazzi have zero tact or respect for privacy, so it wouldn’t come as any surprise at all to either of you if they asked her what was going on and attempted to make her share details. All you can do is hope with her that the police will handle this discretely.

            You watch the driveway from the window, not wanting to just stand outside. When they arrive, fifteen or so minutes later, Ryland puts a hand to her forehead. They didn’t flash their lights or anything, but they showed up in a regular, blatant cop car.

            “Mon dieu, les _imbéciles_ …”

            You go out and are greeted by the officer you spoke to earlier and a couple of others. The car has been stopped right before the box, which is exactly where you left it earlier. You attempt to walk in such a way that the box doesn’t end up in her line of vision again, but she’s very pointedly not looking in its direction anyway. You’re doing the same, honestly.

            “I assume this is the box?” the officer asks, gesturing toward it.

            Ryland’s eyes drift just enough to see the tiniest bit of the box before looking back at him. “Yes.”

            “Alright.” He and the other officers start to look at the box. You look at Ryland, whose expression is still one of forced neutrality, but even as they investigate it, she doesn’t watch them. You would like to, just to know what’s happening, but you really don’t want to see the contents of the box. Instead, you keep your gaze focused on Ryland.

            You just really hope they’ll be able to do something about it. Even just increasing patrols of the area doesn’t seem like that much, but you don’t really know what else they could do. But honestly, everything you know about police and crime is pretty much gleaned from cop dramas, so you’re hardly an expert, so if you’re lucky, there’s something they can do that you don’t know about. Anything. You hope intensely both for that, and that they will be able to get fingerprints from the box… even if you know that won’t do much good until they’ve actually got a suspect. Still, it would be a step in the right direction.

            After a while, one of the officers approaches you. “We’re taking the box in as evidence,” she says. “Past that, we’ll increase patrols in the area and begin an investigation. I’ll be the lead detective on the case, so if anything else happens, give me a call. If there’s any immediate danger, call 911 as per usual.” She gives Ryland a business card.

            Ryland nods, accepting the card. The officers leave, and you take Ryland’s hand, motioning for her to come back inside with you, which she is happy to do. On the way in, you cringe: there’s a bloodstain where the box had been. You hope it rains soon. Would rain even be enough? You don’t know, but you don’t want Ryland to have to be reminded of that every time she opens the door.

            Back inside, the two of you sit on the couch, and you pull her into a cuddle. It’s usually the other way around, like how you’ve been the little spoon every single time you’ve shared a bed together, but for today, at least, it feels right for it to be the other way around. “Can I stay? At least until tomorrow,” you request. You know she doesn’t want you to glue yourself to her side, as much as there’s a part of you that would sure like to do that, but you’re just really worried about her. Not just for her physical safety, but emotionally as well. Especially after what she had to see today.

            “I don’t want to talk about it,” she tells you. Which really isn’t an answer to your question, but she’s worried that’s what you intend.

            And yes, you _do_ think it would probably be good for her to talk about how she’s feeling, but you’re not going to try to force her when she’s clearly so uncomfortable with it. If she wants to, you would be glad to support her, though. “That’s fine. I just… I still don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

            She pulls away enough to look at you. “I am not alone. You are just a phone call away. Even when I do not call, I know that.” She rarely allows herself to express this type of open sincerity. Only with you.

            You can feel your expression soften, but even so: “You know that’s not what I meant.”

            “I do. But I am fine. …Going to be fine. …I am able to handle myself.”

            “Just because you _can_ handle something by yourself doesn’t mean you _have_ to. I _could_ handle lots of things on my own, but I know I don’t need to, because I have all of you.” Ryland, your best friend, Demi, your family, your tour family… You’re lucky to be surrounded by people who care about you so much. But the tour family cares about Ryland, too, as do you, so very much. She isn’t alone, either.

            “That is true,” she acknowledges. “But I do not need you to stay. I will be fine on my own.”

            You can’t tell if she’s telling the truth, claiming it because she really _wants_ it to be the truth, or if she is just pushing you away. You don’t see how it could possibly be the truth. She just received a box full of brutally killed dead mice, in addition to the death threats she’s already been receiving, and she’s trying to act like she wouldn’t be scared on her own? She is brave, and you’re not surprised for her not to want to admit to being scared, but she wouldn’t need to admit it just to accept your offer to stay.

            Unbeknownst to you, the truth is even more complicated than that. Ryland wants to protect you, yes. But as for the fear, the truth is, she is trying to convince herself that she isn’t afraid just as much as she’s trying to convince you. Maybe even more.

            You do sense that there is something she isn’t telling you. You debate whether to call her on it or let it slide, but tact has never really been your strong suit, so you end up with the former. “Why don’t you want me to stay?”

            She’s quiet for quite a while, but you wait, assuming she will respond eventually. Luckily, you’re right. “They’ve been warning me to stop seeing you. If this is their response to me spending the night with you once... I don’t think we should see each other anymore, until this… **_enculé_** … is behind bars. It’s safer for both of us that way.” You don’t understand the French word, but her voice is so full of loathing that you understand the gist of it.

            “Not really!” you object. “If we don’t see each other, then what?! Do you just plan to stay by yourself all the time?! No way is that safer!”

            “Then what do you suggest I do?!” Her voice is raised again. It feels sudden to her, but really it’s just the continuing effects of her bottling everything up for so long. “If we keep seeing each other, things are just going to get _worse_ , and I can’t let that happen! Ce fichu enculé ne sera– not going to back down just because of a few cop cars! They _sent me a box of **dead mice!!** _They are completely crazy, and I would not put it past them to do the things they have been threatening!” Her pitch steadily rises.

            “And you’re scared, and I’m scared for you, and I don’t want to leave you by yourself! Maybe if I’m here, so you’re not alone, they won’t do anything!”

            “Or maybe they’ll just kill both of us!” The words are so blunt that they shock even her. She takes a deep breath, calming herself before she continues. “Listen, there is _nothing_ I can do to get myself out of danger. I told you. All I can do is try not to bring others into danger with me.”

            “But Ryland – please. Even if you want to act like you’re not afraid… I’ll be honest with you. I told you, I’m scared for you. I’m so afraid for you.” Your voice is quiet, and you can hear it shaking. “I’m scared that something will happen to you, and I won’t be able to stop it, because I wouldn’t even know. Yeah, I’m only a phone call away, but I can’t help if you don’t call me!” You don’t want to talk about those things. You don’t want to talk, or even think, about worst case scenarios. But you also know that there’s no way around it right now.

            “I will call you.” She brushes some hair from your face. “If I think I am in trouble, I… will have to call the police first, but I will call you as soon as I can.”

            You don’t want to speak it, because it’s such a worst case scenario, and you know the tears filling your eyes will start to fall if you do. You say it anyway. “What if you can’t call them?” What if someone broke in, and she couldn’t get away enough to make a phone call? Or she steps outside, and– You can’t bring yourself to think about it. “If I’m here, I would know. I could call help for you.”

            She brushes some of her tears away, not saying anything for now. She doesn’t know what to say any more than you do, for once. You doubt there’s anything that could be said. “But whether I am alone or not… what if neither one of us could call them? If I am unable to call, I do not know why anyone else in the house would be able to.”

            She’s blunt, and it hurts to be reminded of just how helpless you are, but you know she’s right. “I just wish I could protect you.”

            Ryland hugs you. “I know.”

            You don’t want to cry, wishing desperately to help her, and that perhaps being strong could at least do something for her, but you can’t help it. You don’t want to talk to her more about your utter powerlessness, because you’re sure she feels the exact same way, and that much you do manage to hold back on. After a couple of minutes, you manage to calm down, though you don’t want to break the hug just yet. “…So what are we going to do?”

            “You’re going to go home. We can talk on the phone sometimes. I’ll let you know if I hear back from the police.”

            “I want to be here for you. I don’t want you to go through this by yourself.”

            “And I want at least one of us to be safe.”

            It’s really hard to argue with that. No matter how strongly you feel, you’re painfully aware that she has logic on her side more than you do. It doesn’t make sense for you both to be in danger, especially considering that your presence could escalate matters. You pull away so you can make eye contact. “Call me like all the time, okay? As much as you can. That way I’ll know you’re safe.”

            “Alright. I will do my best.” She kisses your hair. “I appreciate your support. Truly.”

            “I love you.”

            “Je t’aime aussi, Mon Cœur.” Bringing you close with her arms around your waist, she kisses you, and you are more than happy to return the affection. You hope it won’t be long at all until you are able to see her again, but you have no idea how long it will take for them to catch the stalker.

            But you can only linger for so long, unfortunately. Eventually, you break the kiss. And with enough hesitance to almost make you reconsider, you force yourself to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: police, implied dead animals, implied violence/cruelty toward animals, mice, blood, panic attacks, nausea, ableist word in character dialogue


	3. We Stand Together Facing a War

            Every time you’ve talked on the phone, Ryland has said she’s fine.

            She said she’s still getting creepy letters and drawings. No more… gifts, though. But the police don’t even have a suspect yet. The media knows about the situation. You’ve been keeping up on what they’re saying for the sole reason that you high suspect Ryland is as well. Neither of you have mentioned it in your conversations, but you’re sure that if she is, which she probably is, she’s probably pretty bothered by it, considering that was such a huge concern for her. They’ve been making her sound like some terrified victim, which… she’s not, and even to the extent she is, because of _course_ she’s terrified, who wouldn’t be? But they don’t care about that, nor about her privacy. Somehow they found out about the box and subsequent arrival of police cars, so speculations have been running wild. Neither you nor Ryland have been going out all that much, so they haven’t gotten a chance to harass you personally yet.

            Only… now it’s been a couple of days since you’ve heard from her. You’ve called her several times, more worried each time, and she hasn’t picked up once. You’re terrified for her sake, so… no matter how much it could be a bad idea, you can’t help yourself. You wanted to go to her house. You’re not rushing in recklessly or anything, of course. Your best friend knows Ryland’s address and about how long it takes to get there and back. You’ll let her know when you have arrived and when you are going to leave, and you’ve set up a plan that if she doesn’t hear from you for longer than it should take, she’ll call you and then the police if you don’t answer your phone. She really isn’t a fan of the idea, because it’s undeniably risky, but she eventually agreed to it when she realized there wasn’t going to be any talking you out of it. You just… You _have_ to know if Ryland is okay.

            And that’s what brings you here. Ringing her doorbell. Waiting, looking over your shoulders every so often. Wondering what you’ll do if she actually doesn’t answer. Would you call the police? But what if she’s just out getting groceries or something? But what if it’s something more dangerous? After all, you haven’t heard from her in nearly three days. But what would the police do, break in? What if there was really nothing to worry about, and a fuss was raised for no reason, and they thought of you like the little boy who cried wolf and took neither of you as seriously anymore? But… what if that fear stopped you from saying anything and you _should_ have done so, because something _is_ terribly wrong?

            You don’t know how long you’ve been waiting on her doorstep. You debate whether to ring the doorbell again, but you don’t think it has actually been as long as it feels. What you do know is that your heart is pounding.

            Thankfully, she eventually opens the door, to your incredible relief. Doing so where you could be seen is probably a dangerous idea, but you can’t stop yourself: as soon as you see her, you throw your arms around her, nearly tearing up. “You’re okay!”

            She pulls you into the house, where you’ll have more privacy than outside her front door, and locks the door behind you. “What are you doing here?” Her voice is harsh. She puts her hands on your shoulders and physically pushes you away.

            You look at her, hurt and confused. You know she tends to push people away sometimes, but isn’t now the worst time possible for that? Especially under these circumstances, and when she _promised_ to call you often to make sure you knew whether or not she was safe. “You haven’t answered any of my calls or texts in almost three days! I was freaking out!”

            “I told you I would call you if I thought I was in danger!”

            “ _If_ you were able to! I– I thought, what if something _had_ happened, and you didn’t have a chance to call anyone?”

            You can’t read her expression at all. You might expect it to soften at your concern – though perhaps you should know better, considering that this is Ryland, after all – but it only hardens. “You can’t be here. They still have not caught the stalker.”

            “Well, I’m already here, so pushing me away isn’t going to solve anything! What happened? Why have you been ignoring me?!” You’re desperate for an answer, worried sick about what has been done to prompt her to act this way. Is everything just taking its toll on her, or has something else happened?

            “Nothing. Stop worrying about me.”

            You take her hands in yours. “I’m not going to let you push me away! Is this about protecting me again? Because I’m not letting you go through this alone!”

            She pulls your hands away, beginning to feel rather frustrated. And right now, as much as it hurts like hell, she’s determined to push you away. It’s for your own good. “Yes, it’s about protecting you! Why can’t you just trust my judgment about this?!”

            “You didn’t even tell me there was a judgment to trust! All you did was stop contacting me!”

            Instead of escalating it into further argument, Ryland’s voice becomes completely neutral. “Well, I am telling you now.” She doesn’t want to fight with you. She doesn’t even want to push you away, but the risks of not doing so far outweigh what feels to her like selfishness on her part.

            Your shoulders slump as you start to feel rather defeated. You trust her, but how can you express that this is different? The truth is, for all you know, she could be completely right. …No, you know she is. Her not contacting you probably _is_ what’s safer for you. It might even be what’s safer for both of you. But if there’s nobody to make sure she’s safe– Oh, speaking of which!

            You need to check in with your best friend. “Give me a second,” you say to Ryland, adding that you promised to call your best friend when you got here so she would know you’re safe, before making the aforementioned call. Your friend answers the phone almost immediately. “Hey. Just wanted to let you know I got here alright. And it doesn’t seem like there’s any immediate danger.”

            “Is Ryland alright?”

            Kind of hard to answer that with Ryland standing right there, because you really don’t think that the answer is yes, but saying you don’t know might make it sound like you haven’t found her, and you can’t really clarify that without making it obvious what she asked. You doubt Ryland would appreciate you telling her that the answer is probably no, or even that you don’t know. Anything but a ‘yes,’ the truth or not. Besides, a flat out no would probably cause her to worry about Ryland’s safety, which isn’t the immediate issue. “I can’t really answer that right now,” you decide upon. “Anyway, I’m about to talk to her. I’ll text you when I’m about to leave though.”

            “Alright, sounds like a plan.” You hope she isn’t upset by your not answering the question, but the truth is, she knows enough about Ryland to guess that it’s because Ryland is present and would hear. She can even draw the conclusion that the answer is less than a ‘yes,’ but that it isn't so much about her physical safety. Realistically, on an emotional level, how  _could_ Ryland be okay?

            “Thank you,” you tell her, not for the first time that day. You really appreciate her willingness to support you in this and make sure you’re safe, even though she’s really not happy about you doing this in the first place.

            “It’s no problem. I just want you to be safe.”

            “I know. And I appreciate that. …Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

            “Mmhmm. Make sure you’re going to be back before dark,” she reminds me.

            “Of course.” You know you won’t want to leave, making Ryland be all alone again, but you also know she won’t let you stay the night, and having to leave is inevitable anyway.

            There’s a pause before your best friend says, “Alright. Talk to you later,” and ends the call. You can only imagine how worried she must be, too – like you’re walking into a lion’s den. Probably as worried as you are about Ryland being alone. Your apartment isn’t completely safe either, if you’ve been threatened, but it’s better because you don’t live alone. Not that you think that would stop someone like that from hurting your best friend, too. But with you both in the apartment, it feels safer somehow. It’s the same sort of ‘logic’ with which you feel as though Ryland is safer with you present, even though when you force yourself to try to take a step back and look at it logically, you know that the exact opposite is the truth.

            When you turn back toward Ryland, having turned away to make your phone call, Ryland is looking at you. Her expression seems entirely impassive – impossible to read, as is so often the case with her.

            “We set up that if she doesn’t hear from me for too long, she’ll call the police.”

            “I am glad you are being safe.”

            You know that much is definitely the truth, but… god, she sounds so cold. You want to grab her by the shoulders and ask her what the hell has happened to make her like this. You know she’s scared and the situation could just be getting to her, but at the same time… she wasn’t like this the last time you talked to her. Or maybe she was. That’s the problem with how good she is at hiding her feelings. It’s practically impossible to read her most of the time in person, let alone over the phone, so for all you know, maybe she already was this distressed. She told you that nothing major had happened, though… Unless maybe she was lying. You have no idea, and that’s part of what scares you so much.

            “Okay, I don’t trust your judgment right now,” you finally decide upon. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. Or maybe I do. But I won’t accept it.” You hold her gaze. It’s really difficult for you to do when someone’s eyes are so hard like hers are right now, but you force yourself to do it anyway. You want – _need_ – her to know that you aren’t going to back down. This is too important.

            “You know as well as I do that us being in contact is only going to risk things getting worse. I do not want to do that. Not just for your sake, if you will not accept that as a valid reason. For mine, as well. We can’t see each other. We can’t talk to each other.”

            “Then who are you talking to?” As in, you really don’t want her to feel like she has to keep all of her feelings to herself. That’s way too painful! And while there’s a chance she’s talking to Demi or someone, you suspect that her answer is going to be one that will pain and yet also frustrate you immensely.

            There is a small pause before Ryland replies, “I do not need to talk to anyone. No one is going to be able to make this better. I can cope by myself, anyway,” she insists. The truth is that she knows she isn’t coping particularly well. She’s in a constant state of varying degrees of fear. But really, would talking to anyone be of any help with that? Perhaps if it was a minor or irrational fear, sure, she could see some logic in it. But for something like this, where her physical safety was really and truly at risk? It seemed rater pointless. Worse than that, even, if it’s you she would talk to. That could just make things get even worse than they already were.

            You feel as though she isn’t even hearing you. You’re trying really, really hard not to become angry with her, because you know that’s the last thing that would help the situation right now, but it’s not working particularly well. That’s always been one of your weak points. “It’s not healthy to keep all your problems to yourself! _Please,_ Ryland, just let me help you!”

            “You are not helping me; you are just making things worse!”

            “What did they do to you? What aren’t you telling me?!”

            Ryland finally averts her eyes. She tries to keep them hard, but she can’t help but to think about the answer to your question, and it is really, **_really_** not pretty. She doesn’t want to tell you. She keeps her façade up as best she can, debating whether to try to give a diversionary answer or not to say anything at all – right now, she doesn’t see telling the whole truth as an option. She knows your stubbornness, however. If she doesn’t tell you anything, there’s no way you’ll leave.

            So she swallows hard, as though trying to literally, physically swallow her anxiety. And her pride. She really doesn’t like opening up to people, no matter how much she trusts you. “It is just the same letters- just- they have become more graphic.”

            You sense, somehow, that there’s something she isn’t telling you. Is it what exactly she means by graphic? Or is it something else? Your voice is soft – pleading, even – as you ask, “Ryland, please. What aren’t you telling me?”

            Her answer is blatant this time. “No.” She refuses. She can’t bring herself to speak of it. It’s too horrible.

            “Okay, why not?” When you say ‘okay,’ you really mean ‘okay for now.’ You’re not going to give up while she’s still deeply upset by whatever she’s currently insisting upon keeping to herself. But maybe, hopefully, if you can figure out what’s holding her back, you can be of some help.

            She looks up at the ceiling, feeling tears stinging at her eyes. She hates it. She absolutely doesn’t want to cry again. “I do not want to talk about it.”

            At a certain point, does it stop being helpful to talk about something, and it ends up just forcing someone to remember it in detail, totally re-opening those wounds? Your instincts tell you that the answer is probably yes. But even knowing that, you feel like you need to know for reasons other than just to support her. You need to know for your own safety, as well as that of your best friend. And Ryland’s, if there’s anything at all you can do. “I can understand that, but… I think I need to know. Because… you know. For my sake, too.”

            She doesn’t respond right away, as she has to try to decide whether or not to tell you. You do have a point, but for your own peace of mind, it would definitely be better not to say anything of it. But you’re the one who’s been threatened, and maybe you should know that so you know how important it is to keep yourself safe. Or maybe not. She knows it’s a long shot for you not to press the issue further, but Ryland is Ryland and she’s even more stubborn than you are – except when it comes to you, who she absolutely hates to feel she has hurt or let down. She has one last idea to try, though. “Could you – without me telling you – just… make sure you keep yourself safe?”

            And now you know. That the threat was posed about you. That explains Ryland’s recent behavior, you suppose. Not that that’s going to make you back down, of course. You _have_ been doing your best to stay safe, clearly, but telling her that seems like it would be almost beside the point. Instead, you speak to her gently as you request, “Ryland, please. Talk to me.”

            And just like that, she’s out of defenses. She’s never been able to say no to you… Ryland lets out a slow breath, resigning herself to the fact that she has no choice. “A dead cat.” The words are forced out with no clear context, but she can’t bring herself to go into details.

            Of course you understand what she means, though. She was ‘ _given_ ’ that, in the same way she was ‘given’ the mice. You cover your mouth, shocked. Horrified. Speechless.

            “It had a collar.” Her sentences are short, choppy, because she can barely bring herself to force out the terrible words. It makes her feel sick just thinking about it. More than anything else, though, it _hurts_. It pains her to think about the danger you might be in because of her.

            You have a growing pit of dread in the pit of your stomach. You try not to acknowledge where this is all too likely to be going.

            “It said your name,” she finally manages. Her throat feels tight, like it’s all but impossible to get more words out. It hurts; it really hurts to talk. Whether it’s physically, emotionally, or a combination of both, she can’t quite pin down.

            Your entire body feels numb in your distress, but as much as you feel that way, you can only imagine how much worse it must be for Ryland. You reach out to hug her, but she takes a step back.

            She won’t look at you. Her expression looks entirely blank, as she feels completely overwhelmed by what she has just told you. She isn’t even sure she’ll be able to say anything else if you ask her more about it, her voice feeling trapped.

            Of course, you do have one quite obvious question, though. “When?”

            She takes a deep breath, though it shakes slightly. “The day I stopped calling you.”

            You sit down on the couch, feeling like your legs may give out from under you if you try to remain standing. No wonder she didn’t want to talk to you. No wonder she wanted space, wanted to try anything she could to protect you. As afraid as you are, you don’t want her to protect you by pushing you away, but… you understand now. Even if you wish she hadn’t gone about it that way, what else was there to do? You can hardly blame her for it.

            Ryland sits down next to you. She doesn’t know what to say, and neither do you, so the two of you just sit in silence a while.

            Your throat feels tight and aches. You feel like crying, but for once, no tears will come as you’re so in shock. You lean into Ryland, and although she rejected your effort to hug her, she now puts an arm around you. You turn toward her, almost burrowing into her body, arms around her tight. You aren’t sure whether you’re trying harder to protect her or to be protected yourself, but the truth is that you don’t think you’re being very effective at either.

            You adjust yourself in a way that allows your head to rest against her chest, where you can hear her heartbeat. Finding it calming, you try to focus on that. Although you don’t want to take your focus off her safety at all, you know you won’t be of much help if you’re freaking out as well. Instead, you take comfort in the steady reassurance that Ryland is alive, which accompanies each rise and fall of her breathing, and each heartbeat comforts you to a degree. Has it always beat this fast, though…? You can’t say you’ve ever spent much time thinking about it or its pace, so maybe it’s just your imagination. You hope as much, as opposed to it being the stress…

            After a while, you sit up. “Okay, you might be right that it’s better for us not to see each other, but I need some way of knowing that you’re alright. Can’t you still call me every so often? It doesn’t need to be all the time. We don’t have to talk for long. Just… I don’t know. A few times a week, just call me to tell me that you’re okay.” You look away for a moment, but decide it’s important to meet her eyes to stress the importance of what you’re about to say. “I’m really worried about you. I don’t just mean physical safety.”

            She tries to smile. “I appreciate that.” Her expression is quick to return to neutral, however. You can’t help but to wonder how much she must have practiced covering her emotions to be able to do it so flawlessly. When, and why. “But the truth is…” You can tell that she doesn’t want to admit whatever she’s starting to say, and it makes you think about how far she’s come, being willing to push past that and do it anyway. “Talking to you reminds me of how afraid I am of them hurting you. That every time I do, there is a risk of it aggravating them. I mean, that… must have been a response to our continuing to talk on the phone, and I do not know how they would have known that, and…” She trails off, eyes darting away. “Je suis terrifié,” she says, her voice so soft that you can’t bring yourself to make her say it again to translate.

            “I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to help, but… I guess I’ve been doing the exact opposite.”

            She shakes her head. “I do appreciate knowing you care,” she says, her voice still quiet.

            “I wish there was something more I could do.”

            “I love you,” she says, well aware that she can’t deny the futility of your positions. It’s horrible, and you can feel it eating away at you every time you think about it, but neither of you can do much of anything about this.

            You find yourself thinking about the situation just about always, too, and yet you still haven’t gotten any ideas as to how you could help her. There just isn’t anything you can do, and you hate it. To tell the truth, like Ryland, you haven’t been getting much sleep lately. You can’t bring yourself to be that bothered by how much sleep you are or aren’t getting, though. Not when this is going on; not when Ryland is in _danger_.

            “I love you too. So much…” You don’t know what else to say. Because, once again, you know you can’t promise her you’ll be able to get this figured out. You want to, so badly. You want to be able to promise her that everything is going to be okay. But if you’re being honest, which you know you need to… the truth is that all you can do is hope, and you know that hope isn’t always enough.

            She pulls you in for another hug before murmuring, “But I need you to leave now. I will call you call you a couple of times a day so you will know I am alright, okay? But I am not sure how much we can talk.” She sighs softly. “I am not sure of many things right now.”

            “We’ll get through this” you tell her, even if you’re painfully aware that it isn’t a promise you can be certain about your ability to keep. The alternative is too horrible, though; you refuse to let yourself consider it. There’s a silent _if we survive_ that’s hanging in the air, the elephant in the room, and you try with all your might to ignore it. No matter how much you try, however, you can’t forget about the _dead cat_ , and at the memory, you can’t stop yourself from shuddering.

            “Hang in there,” she tells you. “I will too.”

            “I’ll stay strong. Promise.” You’re terrified as hell, and honestly you don’t feel all that strong right now. But for Ryland’s sake, you’ll hold onto whatever degree of it you have.

            “Promise,” she echoes.

            You pull away, pausing to give her a light kiss, then stand. “Call me later.”

            “I will.”

            Speaking of… You send your best friend a quick text letting her know that you’re about to leave. Within a few seconds she replies, confirming she received the text. Ryland stands, walking you to the door, although it’s really not more than 20 feet away. But the truth is, you’re not alone in wishing the moment could last, and she’s dragging it out. Even if you are leaving and she is encouraging you to do so, because you both know that’s what’s best and safest for both of you, both of you wish you could stay.

            After a long moment of just looking at each other, hesitating, she opens the door, and you leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of more dead animals, mentions of more cruelty/violence to animals.


	4. Break Down the Walls

            When you get back to the apartment from visiting Ryland, your best friend is making dinner. “I’m back,” you tell her. You didn’t realize how many knots your stomach was in until you smelled the food, but you become uncomfortably aware as it makes you feel a little nauseous. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You know, as you have the entire time, that worrying from your apartment does absolutely nothing for her, so it would be better if you could stop. That’s ridiculous and impossible, though.

            “How is she?” Though she doesn’t know Ryland as well as you do, of course, the two of them have gotten to be on good terms now. Well, anyone who didn’t like your best friend would probably not be someone you could date, considering how important your best friend is to you. You know that Ryland is probably not entirely thrilled that you’ve been telling your best friend everything about the situation, but you need someone to talk to too. It’s just the way you are… and the reason you worry so much about Ryland’s habit of keeping everything to herself.

            You want to respond in a normal way, but apparently that’s too much for your current stress level – which is, of course, through the roof. Instead of easing into it, you just blurt out the worst part. “The stalker ‘gifted’ her a dead cat.”

            The mixing spoon your best friend was holding falls to the ground in a clatter.

            You’ve been so on edge these days that you jump, but when you register that it was just the spoon, you tell her the other piece of information about it that she needs to know. “The nametag on the collar was… my name.”

            There’s no way to describe the expression on her face other than pure horror. She pulls you into a tight hug. She knows that it won’t fix anything, and it probably won’t even be enough to really reassure you against something like that. But even so, she needs you to know that she’s there for you.

            “I’m so worried about Ryland,” you admit. “She barely showed any emotion the entire time she’s there, but she must be holding back so much…” You know for a fact that Ryland wouldn’t want you to be divulging information like that, but you can’t help it. You can’t keep it to yourself. “I didn’t want to leave, but… she pointed out that my being there would just aggravate the stalker, and I can hardly argue with that. In the end, my being there would just make things _worse_. She promised to call me a couple times a day so I know she’s alright, physically, but…” You trail off, realizing you’ve been rambling out the rest of the story.

            For once, even your best friend doesn’t know what to say. Not when it comes to a situation this serious. “I’m sure the police will catch them soon,” she tells you, trying to stay as optimistic as she can.

            “…Yeah.” You’re not really convinced at all, but you attempt to pretend otherwise. (It fails and she notices – she always does.) You know you’ll feel better if you do that than just focusing on how frightened you are, even if it might only be mildly so.

            When she pulls away, she says, “I need to get another mixing spoon.”

            You assume she’s trying to change the topic. It’s still on your mind, and you’re sure it’s on hers, too. But you’ve already agreed that you would just do your best to try to keep going about things as normal, because there was no good to come from allowing it to consume you. The only difference was that, sensibly, you were taking a bit more precaution when going out than usual.

            So the two of you make dinner and try your best to make idle conversation as you eat, though it’s quite strained. Most of ‘eating’ for you tonight consists of pushing the food around on your plate, as your stomach is still in too many knots. That’s been the case more and more lately, which isn’t really a surprise. You wonder if Ryland is eating properly…

            “I know you probably don’t feel like it, but you’ve got to eat,” she points out, worried. She hasn’t said anything about it until now, but there’s only so long she can watch you eat next to nothing.

            You look down at your plate, realizing that you probably haven’t eaten much more than three bites of the food on it. And you know, too, that she is right. Not eating is just going to make you feel worse. “You’re right.”

            And so, you return to attempting to talk normally, as though you didn’t have reason to believe your lives could be in serious danger. When you’ve both finished eating as much as you can manage, you go to the kitchen to wash the dishes. You usually take turns, and it’s hers tonight, but you don’t really feel like being alone, so you may as well help out. She suggests that when the dishes are done, you watch the final season of the show you’ve been watching together lately, and you agree.

            She’s drying one of the plates when out of nowhere:

            **_BAM._**

            “F-fireworks?” you attempt. Your voice is shaking, and so are you. It would be surprising to hear fireworks during the summer, but your fears are making you wonder about the worst.

            **_BAM._**

            A window shatters. You turn toward the noise and see a bullet whizzing through the living room. You’re about to scream, but you hear another crash of glass breaking and immediately there’s a hand over your mouth.

            Your best friend whispers ‘ _Shhh_ ’ as quietly as possible before pulling you down to the floor. You understand where she’s going with that – attempt to pretend you’re not there. Or at the very least, stop them from knowing where you are. She’s shaking, too, and you feel like you can barely breathe.

            **_BAM._**

            The tiniest sound escapes you as a bullet flies into the kitchen. It tears through the refrigerator and you have no idea how much further it goes. You reach for your best friend’s hand, and she accepts with a squeeze.

            Somebody must have called the cops by now, right? They have to be on their way, right? But even if that’s the case, how soon until they can get there? Where is the shooter? What if they get inside the building? What if they break into the _apartment_?

            Everything goes silent for a while. A couple of minutes later, you can make our police sirens, getting closer and closer.

            “Are we witnesses?” you whisper. “Do we have to talk to them?”

            She’s still unsteady too, but she tries to come up with an answer. “We know of someone with a motive. I think we have to tell them at some point… but maybe not right now.”

            You hear tires screeching. Does that mean that the stalker – as you assume the shooter to be – is leaving? You look up, but stay on the ground. There’s glass on the floor, which you recognize to be from the plate your best friend had been holding. That explains the second glass breaking sound from earlier.

            “I don’t think the officers here have time to question people right away,” your best friend says, starting to have a slightly easier time thinking now. “They’ll probably ask later. For right now… I don’t feel safe here. I’m going to call Dante and ask if we can crash at his place.”

            “—Ryland!” You suddenly explain. Immediately, you’re dialing her number, desperately needing to know whether she’s okay.

            “Invite her, too. If the police are on their trail I don’t think they’ll try anything tonight, but… let’s regroup at Dante’s.”

            You nod in agreement. Technically he hasn’t said you could yet, but there’s no way he would say you can’t come over when you’re in need of a safe place to be, and… **_Ryland, why aren’t you answering your phone please please please pick up; what are you doing, please—_**

            Your best friend gets a response first. She doesn’t tell Dante exactly what happened, but she tells him you’re in danger and makes her request. She informs you that he agreed and the three of you can come over, but you’re far more worried about the fact that **_Ryland still isn’t answering._**

            Finally, finally, she answers. It was only a couple of missed calls, but it felt like an eternity. You’re just glad you talked to her earlier so that she isn’t ignoring you like she had been. That is, until you suddenly realize… could that be the reason this had happened? Was that what prompted the stalker to do this? You must have been silent for a while, because she calls out your name, worry evident in her voice.

            Your mouth is dry, and you can’t make yourself talk. You’re still lying there on the ground, wordless. Ryland says your name again, sounding panicked now.

            Your best friend takes control of the situation, reaching out to take the phone from your hand, and you let her. “Ryland?” A pause. “No one is hurt, but meet us at Dante’s. Like, right now, immediately.” She ends the call.

            You can only imagine how shaken Ryland must be with so little information, but on the other hand, it’s probably actually less afraid than she would be if you told her what happened. “Is it safe for her to leave the house? Is it safe for us to leave the apartment?”

            “Safer than being sitting ducks,” she points out. “The police must’ve either caught or chased away the culprit, but… we don’t know if they’ll catch him tonight.”

            You marvel a little at how calm she can be in a pinch like this. She starts to get up and offers you a hand, which you accept. You feel like it’s a miracle that you can stand at all right now, your legs feeling like they could give out from under you at any second.

            “I’ll drive,” she says after one look at you. You’ve mostly recovered, but it’s clear that you’re still in shock.

            You can hardly object. You get down to the car and leave as quickly as you can, still feeling shaky and sick. You try to comfort yourself with the knowledge that soon the three of you will all be together. Once Ryland is with you and you’re all at a home that, at least presently, hasn’t been targeted. It’s not much, but it’s better.

            When you arrive, your best friend rushes to Dante. You wait, feeling a little awkward to watch – certainly, it isn’t a time to interrupt – but mostly worried about Ryland. What if something happens to Ryland on her way there? You consider calling her again, but she should be driving right now, and you don’t want her to be trying to talk on the phone while she’s doing that. Normally you might not care all that much, figuring she’d put it on speaker or something and be fine, but you’re particularly worried about her being distracted right now, when… as much as you don’t want to think about it, something could happen and she needs to be aware of her surroundings.

            It’s only a few more minutes until Ryland arrives, but it feels to you like an eternity. The moment she’s in the door, you launch yourself into her.

            Ryland doesn’t even have time to prepare herself, nearly falling over at the sudden impact, but she quickly steadies herself and holds you close. You’re crying now, having been too scared to do so until now, and Ryland’s heart is pounding as possibilities run through her mind. “I’m here,” she manages. There are hints of fear choking her voice, noticeable only because your head on her shoulder means your ear is close to her lips, but she still offers you the only reassurance she can.

            You nod, pressing your face into the crook of her neck, but say nothing for a while. It’s hard to think of anything through your fear. After a while, when you’ve calmed some, you find it a little easier to find your words. “I’m so, so glad you’re alright.”

            “I could say the same,” she murmurs. After saying it, though, she pauses and rethinks her statement. “Though… you do not seem entirely alright.” But you are safe, at least, and that’s a relief.

            “I’m not hurt,” you assure her before admitting, “But I’m not… that alright, right now.”

            “That’s okay.” She knows how that feels. Safe, but otherwise not alright at all. That’s been her since this entire thing started.

            You don’t think it’s really that okay, though. You need to calm down so you can all talk about this and figure out what to do. When you’ve managed to compose yourself, at least for the most part, you pull away to look at your best friend and Dante. You feel bad for Ryland and Dante, who only know that you and your best friend are terrified, but have no idea what happened.

            Your best friend is the first to speak. “Sorry, for not telling you what happened. It’s…” She closes her eyes, and it’s so obvious what she’s getting at. It’s really difficult.

            You feel like you’re able to, so even though you’re speaking around a lump in your throat, you step in for her. “Our apartment. It- it got shot at.”

            Ryland lets out a small gasp, shocked, and shivers. She never thought this would actually happen. To her, maybe, maybe. But she had forced herself to keep the hope in her heart that the stalker wouldn’t go after you. And the worst part is, she feels that it’s her fault. When she speaks, her voice is very slightly choked. “I’m so sorry. I should never have dragged you into this.”

            You know how much she undoubtedly doesn’t want to sound so emotional in front of the others. Probably not at all, and maybe even not in front of you, but certainly not in front of anyone else. You know how much she hates being vulnerable. Even if you know it can’t do much, you pull her into another hug, as though it could solve anything. “Shh, no, it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

            You can hear her breath catch, and you know she’s holding back tears. In an effort to save her from the possibility of outright crying in front of them, which you know she would hate, you pull away just enough to motion with one of your hands toward the hallway as you address your best friend and Dante. “We’re going to…” You trail off, wanting to protect her privacy as best you can.

            “Of course,” Dante says, confirming that he has no objections to that. Of course he wouldn’t. He might be a bit on the ‘quirky’ side, but he always comes through when it comes down to it.

            Ryland shakes her head vehemently. “I’m _fine_ ,” she insists. Her voice is remarkably steady, but there’s a clear anger in it. It doesn’t seem to make sense, but that anger is all she has right now. She’s terrified and guilty, but she knows that if she gives into that, not only will she be horribly embarrass herself in front of them, but… she’s afraid that if she lets her façade slip, she’ll never be able to put it back up.

            Nobody there is fine, though. You know that as well as everybody else there. None of you could possibly be fine right know, after what happened. You’re not going to call her on it here in front of them, though. “Okay, but I want to talk to you.” You wonder if maybe you should let it go, if she wants to, but you really do want to assure her that it isn’t her fault, and that’s probably a discussion better had alone.

            She can’t come up with any objections to that. Suspecting that she’s still vulnerable and knowing she wouldn’t want to be seen that way, you attempt to use your body to shield her from Dante and your best friend as you put a hand on her back and lead her to the guest bedroom.

            Once you’re there, she sits down on the bed, hands in fists as she tries to hold herself together. She’s still afraid to let her composure crack, but she can’t stop thinking about what could have happened – that the shooter could have shot _you_ instead of just your apartment – and that it’s all her fault.

            After closing the door, you sit down next to her, putting an arm around her, but she stiffens and pulls away. She doesn’t want to give into your kindness and let herself be weak. “Ryland… You know this isn’t your fault, right? It’s—”

            Ryland stands, turning her back to you. Her breath trembles. “Stop. Just- stop!” She’s trying her hardest to keep it together, but she can feel her emotional control slipping. She covers her face with her hands as though trying to block everything out, but it can’t stop the thoughts about it being her fault or the worst-case scenarios that could have taken place.

            You wonder briefly if you should give her some space, but you can’t bring yourself to leave her alone.  Even if she wants to pretend otherwise, you know she needs your support, and you don’t want her to feel alone. You come closer and put a hand on her shoulder.

            “I should never have…” She takes a quick breath, shaking her head. She shouldn’t have started talking. She knows there’s no point in voicing her thoughts. You’ll tell her she’s wrong, but she feels a certainty deep in her heart that it’s true. It’s unshakable.

            “Ryland. Listen to me, please. It’s not your fault—”

            “Yes, it is!” She pulls away, finally turning to look at you. “It is my fault! _I_ am the one who pulled you into this! If I had just—”

            “Kept everything to yourself? Ryland, that’s not better! Besides, I’m the one who brought _myself_ into this.”

            “I should not have told you. If… maybe if I had broken up with you when it first started. I could have saved you from all of this.”

            “No! Then you would’ve had to go through it all alone, and I don’t want that!”

            “I don’t care. Not if it would mean you’re safe.” Her shoulders are shaking. In a whisper, her voice breaking, she says, “Je ne devrait jamais tu a amené dans cette.” She starts to pull away, but you bring her into a hug. “Je suis désolé… Je suis tellement désolé.”

            “It’s okay,” you say softy. You don’t know what she said in French, but you can only guess it’s something along the lines of what she said in English. You just wish you knew how to actually get through to her…

            She shakes her head, but this time she lets you hold her. You want to argue, but you can’t really do that without knowing what she actually said. That doesn’t mean you won’t try as best you can, though. “I want you to be safe, too. And I don’t want you to be alone.”

            But she wasn’t safe anyway. Whether or not she told you, she wouldn’t be safe. But if you hadn’t known about it… if you weren’t together… then you wouldn’t be in this situation. In danger. Afraid. She could have easily protected you. “Tu aurais pu être tué… Et tout est de ma faute…!” Tears are falling now. She shouldn’t have put you in danger, and the guilt feels suffocating.

            “Ryland…” You can only imagine what a toll this is taking on her. And then to hear that you seriously could have been killed… Part of you is still too much in shock to fully process it, and yes, focusing on her is easier than trying to work through it. Right now, you consider it more important, too.

            She bites her lip hard, trying her hardest to stop crying. “Pourquoi est faisait-il ça a nous?”

            Your heart feels like it’s being shattered. She sounds so scared. You feel so strongly that you need to protect her, and yet you know that can’t do anything. There’s not a single thing you can do to help her. Even more so now that you can’t understand a word she’s saying. All you know is that she must be feeling absolutely terrible right now. Sure, every now and then she’ll slip some French into her sentences, but this… it feels different. For one, you’ve never heard her do it this much before, and… well, usually it’s flirting or messing with you or something. Now, it just feels… different. You can’t place the reason, but she’s using it as a defense mechanism. Even as she’s breaking down, she automatically is putting up walls to protect her heart. It’s not that she doesn’t trust you… it’s just that she doesn’t not how to stop herself from putting up these walls. She’s never before had someone she would be willing to let in.

            You can’t come up with anything else to say, so you just keep holding her and hope that she’ll feel at least slightly better if she’s able to cry some of it out. You rather doubt she’s been letting herself do that much, knowing her. “Je t’aime,” you murmur. It’s one of the only phrases you know: _I love you._

            “Je t’aime aussi.”

            “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

            But wouldn’t it have been better if you _did_? Wouldn’t that keep you safer? “Il tu pourrais avoir tuer… C’est de ma faute. Tu as peur. Tu étais… Tu _êtes_ en danger, et tout est de ma faute!” She’s struggling to keep everything in. She wants to get her composure back together, but it’s falling apart faster than she can do it.

            “I don’t know what you’re saying,” you admit, “but I do know that I’m here for you. No matter what.”

            There’s nothing else for her to say. She isn’t convinced; she doesn’t think she ever will be. But she knows you’re not going to stop trying to get her to believe it, and neither will you take space from her. Would it even matter at this point? After what the stalker has already done?

            You continue to hold her a while. At first she cries harder, but eventually she starts to calm, her breathing slowly starting to even out. You wonder if she’s feeling better at all now that she’s gotten some of it off her chest. “How are you feeling?”

            “Coupable—” She stops. “Déso… I’m… sorry.” She takes a slow breath. “I’m sorry. I know you mustn’t have understood a word of any of that.”

            Well, she’s not wrong that you didn’t understand. You don’t care, though. –That’s not entirely true, because you can only help so much if you have no idea what’s on her mind, but still. “That’s not what matters right now. …I mean, I’d sort of like to know, if I could help? But don’t feel like you need to translate at all or something. Just, you know…”

            “I know what you mean,” she confirms. “It is nothing. Truly.”

            Nothing? Seriously? Does she actually expect you to believe that? You understand that she probably doesn’t want to talk about it, but there’s no way you’re going to accept her brushing it off as nothing. Not when you know how scared she must be feeling. “It’s definitely not nothing.”

            “I just… how would you Americans say it… ‘freaked out’? It is nothing to worry about.”

            No, it definitely is. First of all, the circumstances alone were enough to make you worry. You’ve already been worrying about how this situation must be affecting her, particularly since she rarely tells you anything about what she’s feeling unless you ask her specifically. And even then, she usually gives you the bare minimum that could be conceived of as an answer to your questions. Not to mention that, second of all, it’s so rare to see her composure slip… “Ryland, I’ve been worrying about you ever since I found out about… the situation. Of _course_ this is something to worry about.” You’re gentle with her, but your tone is firm. You’re not going to let her push you away right now. Your voice softens as you continue, though. “There’s nothing wrong with accepting help or reassurance sometimes.”

            “I don’t like it.”

            “I know. That doesn’t mean it isn’t help though, you know? At least that’s what I think.”

            She consider this. She doesn’t know whether she really agrees or not, because she’s never… well… given anybody the chance to show her that. Neither has she had anyone until you who was willing to show her. Perhaps she owes you the open honesty that she fears. At least to try. “It really frightens me to know that they tried to hurt you,” she says quietly. “Really, truly frightens me. And I feel guilty, yes. I am the one who brought you into this.”

            “It is _not_ your fault.” You wonder if it’s actually largely _your_ fault, between the two of you – that her judgment had really been correct, and you really shouldn’t have come to see her. The timing makes it pretty obvious that there was a cause and effect relationship there. You don’t say anything of it though, because the blame game isn’t going to get you anywhere except feeling even worse. “The only one really at fault here is the culprit, okay?”

            There’s a certain degree of accuracy to that which she really can’t argue with. Even if you could both potentially be seen as exacerbating the issue through your continuing contact, it isn’t either of your faults. Neither of you are the ones making threats or attacking. You’re just trying to keep each other safe. Her feelings of guilt still haven’t gone away by any means, but she concedes, “You’re right. I just wish I could protect you. …And that they would leave me alone, as well.”

            You wonder if you said something like that pretty much verbatim earlier in the day. You have a feeling you might have, as it’s certainly been on your mind this entire time, but after all that has happened this evening, it feels difficult to make out your memories of the conversation. “I feel the exact same way.”

            She smiles tentatively before reluctantly pulling away. Her gaze drifts to the door, and she frowns. “I don’t really want to face them after…”

            She trails off, but it’s obvious what she’s referring to. You look at her a bit inquisitively. You broke down crying right in front of your best friend and Dante, and you can hardly bring yourself to care, even if normally you might feel a little self-conscious because of Dante’s presence. You assume Ryland doesn’t think it’s something you should feel self-conscious about, either. At least, she didn’t act like it was. Considering that someone has just tried to kill you and possibly your best friend in the process, you feel no shame in your reaction. But she shouldn’t feel ashamed, either. “They’re not going to judge you for getting upset,” you assure her. “First of all, you saw how we were when we got here – we were totally freaking out! Which is understandable, yeah, but it’s understandable for you, too. You’ve been dealing with this stuff for months, and this was… not a small thing to have happen."

            Ryland nods, looking miserable. You can see her beginning to collect herself, though.

            “You don’t have to do that, you know,” you murmur. “Put up a mask.”

            “Yes, I do. …I feel more comfortable this way,” she admits, knowing you would want to know what she meant by having to.

            You suppose you can’t really argue with that, but at the same time, you do think it’s much easier to be able to feel comfortable letting your guard down. That’s coming from you, though, and you recognize that you’re someone who can’t really put up a mask even when you want to, so you suppose that should be taken with a grain of salt. “Just know that you’re safe here, alright? We all care about you.”

            She smiles, then kisses your cheek. Realizing their present state, Ryland wipes at her own cheeks, which are still wet and tear-stained. The two of you linger a while longer before rejoining your best friend and Dante in the living room. You know that Ryland is still feeling awkward right now, based on what she told you earlier, but she doesn’t let it on at all and no one says a word about earlier. Well, that’s only natural…

            “Any news?” you ask, as your best friend and Dante are looking at one of their phones.

            Your best friend shakes her head. “Nothing yet.”

            If they don’t catch whoever it was, you have a feeling you’re not going to be getting much sleep tonight. Again. …Well, at least you’ll know that Ryland is safely with you. Or at least equally safe as you, which isn’t _really_ all that comforting, but somehow it does feel much better than her being alone. Even if you do know that there isn’t all that much you could do to protect her…

            “Have you eaten dinner yet?” Dante tries. Food is always a good way to cheer your best friend up, and you’re not always immune to that either.

            “Yeah,” your best friend answers. “We were just cleaning up when…” She trails off, and there’s no reason to clarify.

            “I’ve already eaten as well,” Ryland says.

            “Well, I just got a new carton of chunky monkey ice cream,” he says to your best friend, “and of course I’ve always got blueberry jellybeans. Among other snacks, of course. You can help yourselves.”

            “Thanks, Dante,” you reply. Truth be told, you’re not really that hungry, but you appreciate the offer anyway.

            The rest of the night mainly consists of the four of you attempting to relax enough to, at the very least, not be completely on edge. Everyone is still uneasy, and even if Ryland and Dante are quite skilled at hiding it, you know they’re no exception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief mention of last chapter's dead animal, nausea, guns/shooting (no living beings hurt this chapter though)


	5. My Kingdom Come

            Ryland is woken by someone calling… no, not her name. It’s your name. You shift, mumbling something she can’t quite make out, and she gives a small laugh.

            You roll over to look at her, but of course, she isn’t the one at the door calling for your attention. She kisses your forehead but points toward the door. As though on cue, your best friend calls your name again.

            You roll back over, calling out your best friend’s name questioningly in response.

            “Can I come in?”

            “Of course,” you say, although when Ryland pointedly clears her throat, you quickly add, “…in just a minute!”

            Naturally, Ryland doesn’t have any changes of clothes at Dante’s, and unlike you she doesn’t feel comfortable asking to borrow your friend’s clothes. She doesn’t know her well enough yet. And if she has to wear the same clothes two days in a row, at the very least, she refuses to sleep in it. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, of course, but it would feel odd to her if your best friend were to see.

            Ryland gets up, picking her clothes up from where she had folded and placed them, and then gets dressed. When she’s finished dressing, she sits down next to you on the bed, glancing around the room. She slept in her makeup, and she has no idea how it would have kept overnight, so she rather wishes she had a mirror she could use to assess the damage. She’ll also need one if she’s going to put her hair up, but she’ll need to see if she can borrow your friend’s brush for that.

            …There are definitely more important things to worry about right now than her appearance, she’s well aware. It’s not a failure in prioritizing, but rather that she firmly believes that it’s only when one begins to ignore their daily routines and whatnot that everything truly ‘goes to Hell,’ as she has heard Americans say. She tells herself that she refuses to let the situation change her. (So long as she survives it, the little thought in the back of her mind says. It refuses to disappear, no matter how many times she tries to reassure herself that she _must_ survive it.)

            There is no mirror around, so she gives a silent sigh, figuring she’ll just have to deal with being seen however she currently looks. “You can come in now,” she tells your best friend, who does so. Ryland feels self-conscious for someone other than you to see her with her hair down, and the slightly surprised look your best friend gives her only reinforces to her the concern that it must be quite odd. Always one to prioritize saving face, however, she smiles and gives a small wave.

            Your best friend returns both, but Ryland isn’t the reason she’s here. She sits down next to you. “The police want us to come in for questioning,” she tells you. “Since it was mostly our apartment that got… affected, they figured we might know something.”

            “Well, I guess they’re not wrong,” you mumble, worry evident in your voice. Even if they do believe that it was likely the stalker, that doesn’t mean they’ll be able to catch him. You’re sure that if a suspect had already been arrested, your best friend would have already said as much.

            Your best friend gives a hum of confirmation. “We should probably head over. Wanna come take a look at the clothes I’ve got here?”

            “Yeah, that’d be great. …Ryland, do you need anything?”

            A small smile creeps onto her lips. She appreciates your question, but technically they’re really not your things to offer. “Would you mind if I borrow a hairbrush?”

            “No, of course not! Here, come with us.” Your best friend motions for both of you to come along, which you do.

            You enter Dante’s room, where it seems your best friend has some changes of clothes and whatnot. She first locates her hairbrush, then hands it to Ryland. “Merci. …My hairpins are in the other room. I will return shortly.”

            Your best friend nods, presumably confirming she heard her, as she looks through her clothes for something for you to wear.

            Meanwhile, Ryland goes back to the guest room to retrieve her hair pins. They should be on the dresser…

            _They’re not there?_

            Did they fall? There probably isn’t much point in looking for them, she realizes immediately. They’re small, and the carpet is thick. It’s for that exact reason that, at home, she always keeps extras, in addition to having a specific place for them. Here, however, of course she only has what had been in her hair last night.

            It’s embarrassing to do so – she would hate it if you were to walk in on her like this – but she gets down to the ground and attempts to locate the pins. She can’t. She feels around the carpet, but she knows it’s futile, and suddenly something icy spikes in her lungs. She needs to find them. Even if she’s having no luck finding them, she refuses to give up. It’s the little things; it’s always the little things. Where _are_ they?

            Overwhelm hits her and she stops, just trying to keep breathing. She finally decides to stop her futile search, as she’s forced to realize that all she’s doing is upsetting herself over their disappearance. She just has to accept that she’ll wear her hair down until she can get more pins; she isn’t going to make a fuss over something as small as hairpins. At least not visibly. She can’t find them. They’re there, somewhere, she knows… but apparently she’s not going to be finding them today.

            Forcing herself to her feet, she runs a hand through her hair. Okay. _Bien_. She will wear it down. …She doesn’t particularly need a mirror for that, then, she supposes. She brushes it, then runs her hand through it a second time. It seems fine, if not for the fact that it’s completely unstyled. Apparently there simply is no avoiding that today, however, so she returns to Dante’s room.

            You’ve already finished changing in the amount of time she’s been away looking for her hairpins. Brilliant. And on top of that, her hair is still down. She wonders what guesses might be running through your mind right now. “I couldn’t find my hairpins,” she tells you with a small shrug, as though it doesn’t bother her at all. She doesn’t want you to know that she’s bothered by such a seemingly insignificant thing. That this situation is driving her to be uptight about something so small. Ryland doesn’t want you to see any further indication of how much this situation has been affecting her. She doesn’t enjoy being fretted over, and neither does she want to give you more reasons to fret. You have enough to worry about as it is.

            You smile at her. “Well, you know I think you look jut as beautiful with your hair down,” you tell her, feeling only a little shy.

            Ryland laughs a little. You’re adorable, she can’t help but to think, and it’s enough to at least marginally lift her spirits.

            “Sorry, I wish I had some to offer, but…” Her best friend trails off, indicating that she does not.

            “That’s alright. I appreciate the sentiment.” She would have been quite glad if one of you did have some she could borrow or have, but as things stand, she knows she just needs to accept that this is what she’s got. She hands your best friend’s brush back to her. “Thanks for letting me borrow your brush.”

            “No problem.” She puts it back in her drawer. “Anyway, we’ve gotta get going. We’ll be back later.”

            You kiss Ryland goodbye. “I’ll see you soon.”

            “See you soon.” Though, in truth, she’s a little dubious that being questioned by the police is really something that can be completed within a timeframe that one would typically consider ‘soon.’ She hopes you know what you’re getting into… not that she has any idea herself.

            The two of you head out, grabbing a couple of breakfast bars on your way. Ryland accompanies you to the door, but skips breakfast herself. She knows she probably should eat something, but she really hasn’t been all that hungry these days. She’s been eating, of course, but… minimally. She just hasn’t had the appetite.

            Now she’s left alone with Dante DiMarco. It isn’t the first time the two of them have met, but it’s still only the second time. It makes her feel somewhat awkward, particularly in light of the previous day. Honestly, he doesn’t see that as a big deal at all – so what if she’s scared while in a terrifying situation? – but it’s not something she’s able to push aside so easily.

            She has to force herself to keep her hands away from her hair, which is another thing she feels self-conscious about. She feels almost naked with it like this, as she hasn’t worn her hair down in something like a decade. Having always been taught to value appearances, even when she was home by herself, she always put her hair up. Still, she decides it best not to let on that there’s anything particularly unusual about the state of it, so she doesn’t acknowledge it. If he’s aware that it’s strange for it to be down, he doesn’t say anything of it either.

            “You’re totally welcome to chill here a while,” he tells her from the couch.

            Unused to receiving help, particularly from someone she barely knows, she isn’t entirely sure how to respond. “Thank you.”

            He becomes a bit sheepish after that, though. “Unfortunately, I actually have to meet with my band soon. You can stay here, if you want.” He thinks about offering to stay with her, but he doesn’t see any signs of fear in her eyes like he did last night. He assumes it to mean she feels safe there, but really it’s just because her mask is firmly in place right now…

            Ryland can see the logic in staying there, even if it sounds slightly uncomfortable. She isn’t really sure what would be the best thing to do. “I will keep that in mind,” she decides upon, keeping her options open.

            “I’m sure they’ll have this figured out soon,” he says.

            She knows that he’s trying to reassure her, but the truth is that she’s really not all that interested in reassurances. Nobody has any idea what’s going to happen, and she feels like a reassurance like that would do nothing more than lie to herself. Not that she allows any of those thoughts to become visible, of course. “Well, they do have the culprit’s fingerprints.” As soon as they finally make an arrest, they should be able to confirm whether or not it’s the culprit pretty easily, which is extremely important. Not to mention that it should be decisive enough evidence that hopefully there’s little risk of the court not finding him guilty.

            She hears a ringtone and quickly looks for the source of the sound. It turns out to be Dante’s phone. He picks it up, then puts it in his pocket without reading the text that the screen is notifying him of. “The Wolverine can be fashionably late if he so desires,” he says. “Is there anything you need before I go?”

            She gives the question real consideration, although even if she did think of something, it’s probably unlikely that she would admit as much. “Merci, mais non.” She wonders then if he knows any French. With some amusement, she simply decides that she’s about to find out.

            “Is that a no?” he confirms.

            “Correct.” The answer to whether or not he can speak French seems to be the same, too. So far, she has yet to meet anyone in America who can speak it.

            “Well then, I’m going to go. If there’s anything you need, feel fee to give me a call. –Do you have my number?”

            She wonders why in the world he would think she might possibly have his number. Does he have her number? She can’t imagine he would. “No.”

            He gets his phone, goes to the add contact menu, and hands it to Ryland. She adds her number, then sends a text to herself so she'll have his.

            “Thanks.”

            “No prob.” He gives a wave before heading out, and she gives a wave in return.

            It is only once he has left that she sits down on the couch, contemplating what to do from there. She doesn’t feel comfortable at all right now, on edge. On top of that, something in her is feeling rather hollow, completely alone in an apartment she’s visited only once before. She turns toward the window, parting the curtains enough to look outside. It seems there is a forest behind his house, with a wooden fence marking the border between it and the apartment building. No doubt he liked the view, but a shiver runs up her spine as she looks into the forest. She’s trying her best not to think about the fact that anything could be lurking there, and how easy it would be to hide in a forest.

            It feels pathetic, but she now feels nervous about looking away. That’s all the more reason in her mind to force herself to do so, so she does, letting the curtains fall back closed. She begins to wonder, though, if she truly is safer there by herself. She feels fairly sure that she’s safer there when it’s the four of you than when she’s home alone, but she’s not so sure whether that’s still the case when she’s the only one there. At least by her house the police have been doing extra patrols. There’s little chance the police would know where she is, and yet… the culprit probably knows exactly where. Perhaps she’s just being paranoid, she tries to tell herself, but she just can’t bring herself to discard the possibility entirely.

            And if she went home, she could get hairpins and clean clothes. She isn’t sure how long the offer to stay there remains, but if it’s at least one more day, clean clothes are really a necessity. So perhaps she should just make a quick trip back to her house. Certainly, too, police patrols of the area must be higher than ever right after the shooting? It should just be common sense that they’re related – her girlfriend being shot at while she’s being stalked – so she thinks it’s something they would almost _have_ to do.

            Her decision made, she knows it would be best to notify someone, as well. She writes you a text, though well aware you probably won’t actually see it until much later. “Dante had some business to attend to and it is my home the increased police patrols are occurring near. I will return later but for now I would like some clean clothes and whatnot from my house.”

            She assumes you’ve probably only just gotten to the station, unless you’re still in the car, so she’s sure it will be a while before you’re able to respond to her text. No reason to wait, then. She goes out to her car, then returns to her own home for the time being.

            On the way there, she drives past a police car in the neighborhood. She’s glad to see that they are in fact still around. Nothing seems different around her house. The door is still locked, too.

            When she enters, she stops in the doorway after closing the door, her hand still on the doorknob and ready to open it again if need be, and she holds her breath to listen for any signs of there being anyone else in the house. It’s completely silent. Last night was the first time in weeks she had left her house, so she feels uneasy. But with the police patrols in the area, she assures herself that somebody would be bound to notice a break-in rather quickly. She locks the door behind her.

            Even now, she can’t quite decide whether she feels less or more safe here. It does carry the familiarity of her own home and belongings, but knowing that the stalker has been at her doorstep and watching her to some unknown extent is far from comforting. But it is bright in the morning and police are nearby, so she tries to assure herself that nobody would be so bold – no, downright idiotic – as to attempt something like that right now.

            She tries to eat something light for breakfast, but as soon as she sits down, her mind begins to wander. As is typical lately. She isn’t much one for television, as there is rarely anything worth watching in her eyes, but it is still something to distract herself. She turns it to a random show with a vaguely interesting synopsis and attempts to figure out what’s going on, which serves as at least a moderate distraction.

            She turns off the television before going to the kitchen to take care of her dishes. The silence is unnerving, but the idea of being unable to hear something happening is even worse. Next, she goes to her room. She’s not completely sure how long the offer to stay at Dante’s will last, but perhaps two or three changes of clothing would be good? She doesn’t want to appear presumptuous, but she doubts you or your best friend will be going back to your apartment until the stalker has been caught, considering the shooting. And so long as you are remaining there, she assumes that the invitation will remain for her as well, even if she and Dante are practically strangers.

            Clothes gathered and in a bag, she ponders the other necessities she might need. Other than the hairpins, of course. She still has yet to put her hair up, and while that’s less of a problem since she’s alone, she’s holding steadfast to her belief in the importance of routine. Sometimes, deep down, she feels that it’s the only thing keeping her grounded through all of this fear. She recognizes that it probably even borders on something as irrational as superstition, but it’s a comfort, and right now she desperately needs that. No matter how much she doesn’t want to admit it.

            At the mirror in her bedroom, she is just beginning to work on pinning her hair into place when she hears a sound that she can’t quite place. The shattering of glass. A thump? Her heart is suddenly racing. Perhaps she simply forgot to turn off the television, she tells herself, attempting to calm the fear racing through her. She ignores the tug of half-pinned hair and slowly creeps out to check.

            The television is off and her blood runs cold. She can’t breathe, and if she hadn’t become so familiar with the pounding of her heart these past weeks, she might honestly believe she is having an actual heart attack right now.

            Phone. Phone. Where did she leave her phone? She always had it with her. Was she calling the police over a small sound? But it was a potentially dangerous-seeming sound. She can’t breathe. She can’t remember where she put her phone. She can’t gather her thoughts into any semblance of order.

            Would her phone be in her room? She starts to turn. The movement is robotic, like she’s doing nothing more than following a routine to find her phone.

            Without warning, a heavy hand is on her shoulder and she’s thrown to the ground. Her body slams against the carpet, and she’s forced to look up at a man with the most unnerving smile she has ever seen. Her body feels numb, and she knows it will not do her any good, but she attempts to get up. She still wants to get her phone, and she knows it’s ridiculous and it’s far too late for her phone to help her now, but she needs to get her phone, and—

            “Ah-ah-ah,” he tuts, shoving her heard by the shoulders back onto the ground. The reality is sinking in and she begins to thrash. She knows it’s a terrible idea, because he could be armed. He could kill her. He could be about to kill her, but she has to try to get away; she can’t just lie here and wait and—

            “This will keep you from running.” His voice is devoid of emotion. He removes one hand from her shoulders, and she sees it as her opportunity to wrench her body away from him. Whatever it is that will ‘keep her from running,’ if she can just get to her room, lock the door behind her…

            **_Searing pain._** She falls to the ground. Her thigh is absolutely burning, and lying on her stomach as she is, she can’t bring herself to try to move even enough to look at it.

            He flips her onto her back and she sees a **_knife_**. She looks down her body to see crimson rapid down her leg, soaking into the carpet. Her body is stiff as a board, and she curses the pounding of her heart that she knows is only causing more blood to pour, and ‘ ** _mon dieu ce qu'il va faire à moi_** ’ and she needs to ignore the pain; she needs to get away; she needs to escape; she needs to get her phone and call the police even if it might be too late, and maybe, maybe, maybe, ‘ ** _peut-être je peux survivre peut-être s’il te plaît s’il te plaît s’il te plait._** ’

            He straddles her then, to make sure that she doesn’t try to escape, and suddenly it feels as though she has left her body. Like she’s floating above herself, watching her body lie helpless. She’s thrashing with all her might, yes, but she knows it isn’t going to get her anywhere now.

            And then he’s holding a knife to her throat and she immediately goes tense, stilling completely. She knows he isn’t afraid to break her skin. “I would stop moving, if I were you.”

            A breath escapes her. She feels the chill of metal against her throat. Now she’s shaking uncontrollably, and tears begin to roll down her cheeks in a silent prayer as she realizes just how completely helpless she is right now.

            “You’re so cute when you’re scared.”

            “S’il te plaît,” she manages, her voice choked.

            “Stop crying.” He makes a shallow incision upon her cheek. She can’t even feel it this time, so far from her body. Blood begins to beat along it and soon trickles down. It’s still soaking more and more into the carpet from her leg, but with this incision, the blood goes right into her hair, which is still _down_. Her tears stop, as she knows what a liability they are to her in this moment. She feels numb, but even through the fog, she feels deep in herself how scared she is.

            “What shall I do with you now, My Princess?”

            She feels like vomiting.

            He knows exactly what he is going to do, though. He strokes her hair, and then his hands move over her chest, and she doesn’t dare to move, because the still-expanding crimson bloom on the carpet makes unforgettable the ease with which his nauseating caress could turn into a puncture.

            His hands move lower, and she wants to cry, wants to be sick, wants to… she doesn’t even know, but it doesn’t matter because she doesn’t dare. She doesn’t, she can’t.

            He is raising her skirt and with that, her soul truly seems to leave her body. The body she is watching no longer seems hers, no longer seems real. She knows where his hand is going, and he knows where he is violating her, but she feels nothing. Mentally, she knows there is revulsion, but she can’t quite feel it. She can’t feel a thing. Maybe that should be a relief but she’s praying, praying to whatever higher powers she doesn’t really believe in but has never wished for the existence of so strongly before, begging, pleading for some intervention. Anything. Anything to stop him.

            And suddenly, he does stop. Pauses, at least. For now. “Well, I should save one of the best parts for last.” He picks up his knife again. “When the time comes, how shall I kill you? I could slice your throat – that might be nice to watch – but I want your beautiful head in tact.” A finger trails the side of her ribs. “I’ve been researching the body. How I can get through to your lungs. You’ll stay beautiful that way.”

            Fear and revulsion turn her stomach one too many times. She turns her head to the side as she vomits.

            “Well, that’s rather less than appealing. Let’s move you, shall we?” Her body is limp as he drags her across the floor to the center of the room.

            She’s sobbing now, and she’s entirely powerless to stop it, the detachment from her body preventing her from controlling anything at all.

            “What did I tell you about that?” he growls. The knife all but disappears from her abdomen, and there is a shock as he removes it, blood bubbling forth.

            This time, that doesn’t make it any easier to stop. She can’t. She hears herself whimpering, and as her hands rise to cover her face, she can’t tell if the wetness she feels is more blood or tears. “Pourquoi?” Her voice is weak. It sounds pathetic and helpless to her ears. Pleading. “Pourquoi est-ce que tu me fais ça?” _Why? Why are you doing this to me?_

            “You’re getting awfully annoying. The French would be hot, if you’d stop your sniveling.” Ryland hears the tearing of cloth as the knife scratches along the side of her ribs, not quite breaking the skin. “Maybe I ought to just skip ahead.”

            She can’t even think. Her mind has gone completely blank. All she knows is fear and terror and desperation.

            “I know another way to shut you up,” he decides. “Sit.” He starts to pull her up by her shoulders, but she flops back down, limp like a doll. She wants to obey for fear of what he will do if she doesn’t, but her body won’t allow her to. “Oh, come on. You’ll be boring like this. Are you all played out already?” Even as he says this, he’s beginning to undo his belt anyway. If he can’t get her mouth, well, maybe he’ll just have to go ahead.

            Her heart isn’t racing anymore. Maybe she should be alarmed, the thought occurs to her from far away, with all the blood she knows she’s probably still losing.

            “I suppose I’ll kill you if I draw too much more blood.” He stops. “Though, isn’t that what makes this exciting?”

            Sirens. Somewhere. She can’t make it out well. Close? Far? Not close enough?

            He curses, knowing he’s about to be arrested and the fun will be over, then stabs her lung hard without warning. She gasps as he pulls out the knife and blood flows from yet another place.

            The door is broken down. Police offers rush in, guns out. They all aim at him.

            “Release your weapon and put your hands in the air,” an officer commands.

            He’s already gotten most of what he wanted, though. Most of it. He complies.

            Guns remain aimed at him as the officer comes closer. She handcuffs him, telling him his right to remain silent, then takes him out to the car.

            One officer is saying something over a radio, but she’s feeling too dizzy and can’t really make it out. Ambulance. Blood loss. She feels foggy, in a different way from before. There’s a strange noise when she breathes.

            The officer comes closer. “Hey, stay with me. I need you to stay awake. Is there somebody you’d like me to call to meet you at the hospital?”

            She wants to nod, but finds herself unable to make herself move. She doesn’t think she can speak. No words will come.

            “Can you speak?”

            Can she? Can she?

            “I’m going to assess your injuries, alright?”

            She can’t object. Hands touch over her again. She feels sick, but not even a whimper can leave her lips.

            He reports her injuries on the radio, and she wonders if this is what it feels like to die. There’s a strong pressure against her ribs and abdomen as the officer tries to stop the bleeding, but she wonders if it might be too late. Her breathing it shallow. Fast.

            Sirens again. She’s feeling confused now. The police are already here, after all.

            The door opens. A needle is put into her arm – a blood transfusion, to which she can’t even react. She’s moved onto a stretcher, then into an ambulance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: break-ins, panic attacks, dissociation, knife injuries, graphic depictions of violence, blood, attempted murder, attempted rape, non-graphic vomiting, police, guns


	6. Maybe You Can Save Me

            Where is Ryland? **_Where is Ryland?!_** It’s been so long. You’ve called her a dozen times, and you feel like you just know something bad has happened. “We _have_ to make sure she’s okay,” you tell your best friend and Dante, pleading.

            “It’s risky, but I think she might be right,” Dante says. “I’ll drive.”

            The three of you have been driving for a few minutes when your best friend gasps, nearly dropping her phone, which she had been checking. She’s been doing that more often these days, checking for updates on your situation.

            “What?” You can’t help the high pitch of anxiety in your voice.

            “Recent headline:” she says. Her voice is shaky. “Ryland Lumiere Rushed to Hospital in Ambulance.”

            Your eyes widen, shock and disbelief washing over you.

            “I’ll try the nearest hospital,” Dante says, pressing the pedal hard. He’s driving as far over the speed limit as he thinks he can without getting pulled over, which would of course just slow you down.

            “Is there any more information?” you ask, desperately hoping to find out what has happened.

            “I’m reading the article now,” your best friend tells you. “Doesn’t look like it. It’s just information about… the… situation.” All it said was that she had been being stalked for a while now, as had become common knowledge after the box incident.

            You silently curse, immensely regretting having left Ryland alone. But what was she thinking going back to her house?! No, maybe it would have happened even if she had stayed at Dante’s. Why did you leave her by herself?! You feel horrible regret mixed in with your overwhelming fear.

            You’re on the edge of your seat the entire rest of the drive, and your seat belt is off the moment you’re in the parking lot. You wait for Dante to park, but the instant he has done so, you’re out of the car and running, not even waiting for the two of them. The only thing you can think is that you absolutely need to get there as soon as you can. You need to get to her side.

            You go to the front desk, but you don’t even know what to say to them. You’ve never visited anybody in the hospital before, and right now you’re too afraid to be able to calmly figure out the procedure. Neither can you make yourself sound or look anything less than completely panicked, let alone compose yourself. “Ryland Lumière – is she here? I need to see her!”

            The receptionist seems to debate it, then looks at you. A pause. Then, recognition. “You’re…”

            “Yes!” You give her your full name, which is by now something recognizable to just about everyone. “So please…!”

            Technically, she really isn’t supposed to tell you anything, thanks to privacy laws. You’re not Ryland’s immediate relative, nor are the two of you married. But because she knows about the two of you, she also knows that all of Ryland’s immediate relatives must be in Europe. You’re the closest thing she’s got. “It looks like she’s in surgery right now.”

            “ _Surgery?!_ Can you tell me anything? What happened? Her condition?” Your heart is pounding, but you don’t care about anything but Ryland’s safety right now.

            “I don’t have access to much, but it looks like she came in in critical condition.”

            You’re terrified, tears springing to your eyes. “What can I do?”

            The receptionist gives you Ryland’s room number. “All you can do is wait for her there. I’m sorry.”

            You’re silent for a while before finally answering her. You know that she’s done all she can. “I understand. Thank you.”

            She gives you directions to the room. When you start to turn, your best friend and Dante are already there. You assume they heard most of that, so you just start walking, unable to bring yourself to repeat it. You don’t stop until you’ve reached Ryland’s room, sitting on a bench outside it. Your best friend sits beside you, a hand resting on your shoulder, and Dante sits on her other side.

            “Critical condition,” you repeat in case they didn’t hear, looking at your best friend. You can hear the distress in your voice, but you’re not making any effort to hide it anyway. Not like you probably could even if, for whatever reason, you did want to. But there’s no point.

            “I know. Let’s… Let’s try to stay calm, okay? I’m sure that the doctors here are great,” she replies.

            You nod, although if you were to be honest you’re not all that reassured. How could you be? After all, honestly, who could be reassured when someone they love is in surgery, having been carried in in critical condition, and they didn’t even know what happened?! Of course you’re going to be freaking out. You need her attempts at keeping you calm, though, even if you already know they’re not really going to convince you of anything much. Even so, maybe they can help stop you from freaking out worse than you already are.

            It seems like she’s aware there isn’t much more to say, however, because she doesn’t say anything for a while. It isn’t like she can tell you that everything will be okay, and telling you to calm down would be completely ridiculous.

            And so the three of you sit there in silence. And you wait… and wait… and wait…

            After an **_eternity_** , Ryland is brought to her room. As soon as she’s been settled into the bed, you can’t stop yourself from bursting out, “How is she?”

            The doctor frowns. “You’re…” Then she looks surprised, saying your name. There is something to be said for being so well-known, it seems. “She’s a tough one – looks like she’ll manage to pull through. We’ll talk more about recovery after she wakes up, but I don’t anticipate any complications.”

            You’re nearly crying with relief. You badly want to hug Ryland and never let go, but that definitely seems dangerous since you don’t even know where she was hurt or what happened.

            “She should be up within an hour or two.”

            “Thank you so, so much.” You know that there are privacy laws that are being bent – broken, probably – for you and Ryland’s benefit, and you’re extremely grateful for their doing so.

            The doctor shakes her head. “I’m glad I can be of help.” Her gaze drifts to Ryland. “And I’m glad you’ll be there for her. We didn’t have any contact information, so we weren’t sure when you would find out…”

            Which makes sense. As a celebrity, of course Ryland is careful about privacy, so naturally she has a password on her phone. You’re glad to know the doctor seems to care about her well-being, past just the surgery. “Unfortunately, all I know is that she was brought here. I have no idea what happened. Could you fill me in on—”

            A voice comes on over the intercom. “Paging Dr. Torres,” it says, then giving the location of a desk or something where the doctor is apparently needed.

            “I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you, but that’s for me. I’ll be back later to check on her. We can talk then.”

            You know you must look as disappointed by that as you feel, but you can’t exactly hold it against her. It’s not like Ryland is the only patient here. “I understand. Thank you for the information.” And for letting you be there when you technically should probably not be allowed… You appreciate it. Being able to be there for Ryland when she wakes.

            Your best friend looks into the room, then at you. “Would you like us to stay, or…?”

            You think it over. On the one hand, you would like to have her there for you while you wait for Ryland to wake up, but on the other hand, you don’t think Ryland would want others there when that happens. You know how private she is and how she hates being seen vulnerable. “I’ll be fine. I don’t want to overwhelm her or anything having us all here…”

            She nods, understanding. “Alright.” She turns to Dante. “Should we go back to your place for a while?”

            “Yeah, that sounds good,” he replies.

            “Okay. Give me a call when you’re ready to be picked up, or if you need anything, okay?”

            “Yeah. Thanks, guys.” You give them the best smile you’re able to form.

            “No problem.”

            The two of them leave, and you find yourself wondering whether you’ll have to leave at some point. Visiting hours do only go on for so long, after all, but… you really don’t want to leave her. You’re sure that the doctors have heard that a million times, though, and still know that they have to enforce the rules. …Well, you don’t really like to exploit your celebrity status for things, but if it would work, it might be worth it. You can only hope that your being a celebrity will tip the odds of leniency in your favor, even if you know that would be some heavy leniency. You just can’t leave Ryland alone, though. You refuse.

            You pull up a chair, sitting next to Ryland’s bedside, and you hold her hand. It feels really… scary, not being able to do anything but to wait for her to wake up. Not even knowing what happened. You can see her cheek has a bandage over it, but you know that wouldn’t be enough to warrant surgery, and neither would it be enough to put her in critical condition. Something more obviously must have happened, but what?

            Automatically, your mind starts to theorize. You tell yourself to stop trying to guess, because you don’t want to do it. What if you come up with things even worse than what actually did happen? Even if one of the things you guessed were the truth, you’d be torturing yourself coming up with a bunch of ways Ryland could have been hurt, and you can barely stand it, even if at the same time you can’t get yourself to stop thinking about it. You think about pulling out your phone to look at articles to see if anybody has gotten any information, but you don’t want to just read a lot of articles about what you already know, or even worse, ones with speculation. You’ve learned by now that some “journalists” really do not care about their impact on celebrities’ lives if it means getting more readers, stirring up fear and exposing secrets.

            You want to know the second she wakes up, but just sitting there, your mind is filled with all kinds of fears about what could have happened to her. The doctor did say that she’s probably going to make a full recovery, physically speaking, but emotionally? There were certainly no promises there, and how could there be?

            After a while of attempting to stop yourself from focusing on all the possibilities of what could have happened and failing to do anything but fixate on them more, you pull out your phone and decide to at least try. You’ve been playing a game lately about some high school girl trying to get into Yale. And you can’t deny, her sudden passion for theater kind of reminds you of your shift from economics to singing. And… the (supposedly) super attractive person she falls for despite said person having teased her quite a bit, but is actually pretty charming? You can’t help that the character reminds you of Ryland, although the character is a guy.

            _“I’ve spent all this time ‘romancing my GPA,’ and turns out, you can’t take your GPA to prom. Who knew?”_

_“Oh, man. You really put your eggs in the wrong basket. Okay. Then what do you say we cave to society’s expectations, get all dressed up, and partake in this capitalism-imposed BS tradition?”_

            …Okay, he’s also very much not like Ryland in a lot of ways. Ryland is **_much_** more romantic.

            You spend a while playing the game, but really, your mind is on Ryland. And you don’t just mean comparing her to the character’s probably-boyfriend-to-be, either. You keep looking to her every couple of minutes, but within an hour, you’re barely even looking at your phone at all anymore. And finally, finally it pays off. Your phone immediately goes back into your pocket as Ryland starts to stir, just a little. One of your hands is still holding hers.

            It’s only a few seconds before she bolts straight up, eyes wide and looking panicked, hand pulling away from yours and moving to her chest. She’s breathing quickly, barely even noticing the pain that shot through her body upon sitting up so quickly.

            “Ryland,” you say softly, trying to get her attention.

            She flinches, then turns toward you. You see her relax a little when she registers your presence, but her eyes quickly fill with tears. She’s so glad to have woken up and to see you again, but god, she was so scared. You get off the chair and sit down on the bed, offering her a hug. She wastes no time in accepting, and it’s only then that you can feel her trembling.

            “I’m here now,” you murmur. “And you’re safe. You’re safe now. Nobody can hurt you here.” There aren’t a lot of promises you can make, but now you feel pretty sure of that. You’re also glad that you can finally do _something_ to help her, even if you wish it had been so, so much sooner.

            A small sound escapes her, and she starts to cry. You wonder how badly she was hurt. You know it was extremely serious physically, but the extent of it emotionally could be even more. You just have no idea. Now isn’t the time to ask, though. Her tiny cries quickly escalate into sobs, and she clings to you like you’re her one and only lifeline.

            “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” And you’re back to not being able to do anything else.

            The unfortunate truth is, you’ve gotten used to this feeling of uselessness. You try to tell yourself that you _are_ doing something in supporting her, but it’s barely anything at all. Maybe you can protect her now that she’s safely in the hospital, but no matter how much you wish you could, you can’t go back and change what happened. All you can do is be there for her and try to help her recover as much as you can. You hope that you’ll be able to help her recover and move on eventually. No matter how long it takes. You just… want her to be able to be happy again. For her sake. And Ryland is strong. You’re sure she’ll make it through this.

            And you don’t let that certainty waver. No matter how much she’s hurting right now, now that the… situation will surely have resolved soon – they must have caught the culprit by now, right?! – you tell yourself that it will eventually pass. You’re met again by the feeling of wanting to cry for her sake, which gets stronger with each passing minute. But you won’t, because you’re more determined than ever to be strong for her. Maybe you’re wrong, but you feel like that’s something she needs right now. Someone strong to be able to rely on.

            She burrows her face more into the crook of your neck. Your skin is getting wet with her tears, and you don’t think your heart could shatter any more than it already has. Part of you wants to try to tell her that it’s okay because the situation should be over now, but you can’t bring yourself to. You might not have that much real-life experience, but you’ve seen enough television dramas to know that even once the physical damage is done, it won’t be emotionally over for a while after that.

            The one positive thing is that you do have undoubtedly decisive evidence. You don’t think there’s any way that a lawyer could argue against the guilt of someone whose fingerprints were found on a box of dead—

            —So it shouldn’t be too stressful in terms of needing to prove things with your testimonies, you hope upon hope. You can only imagine that it will still be horrible for her to have to testify about it, though. Not that it will be a walk in the park for you either, but it won’t be anywhere near as bad for you as it will be for her.

            But you’re going to be there for her every step of the way. She won’t be going through this alone. You’ll be able to protect her now. Or at least that’s what you’re insistently telling yourself…

            You don’t mind waiting however long it would take for her to calm, but that doesn’t make you any less incredibly relieved when her sobs begin to abate. You hope that it means she’s feeling better.

            “Tu êtes ici,” she says softly. She’s still feeling groggy and strange from the anesthesia.

            You have no idea what she said, nor can you even begin to guess. You try to think of things she potentially may have said, but nothing comes to mind.

            “Comment? Comment saviez-tu?”

            You wish you could speak French. Maybe she would find that reassuring, to have someone speak with her in her native language, which you assume must come somewhat easier to her than English. She’s planning to teach you French, but so far you haven’t really gotten around to it yet. “Je t’aime,” you tell her, although you’re pretty sure she asked a question, and it’s pretty likely that that doesn’t really answer it. But ‘thank you,’ ‘hello,’ ‘I love you,’ and a couple of endearments are the only things you know how to say in French. ‘I love you’ is not only the only one of those things that makes sense in this context but also the most important one.

            She pulls away just enough to look at you. She doesn’t smile, her heart too pained, but she does say, “Je t’aime aussi.” Her breathing is finally evening out from the rough crying, much to your relief.

            You don’t know what to say. You want to ask how she’s feeling, but the answer seems fairly obvious. You wonder if she’s in any pain, but you don’t even know what happened… That’s what you really want to know, too, but you don’t want to make her talk about it before she’s ready. Whatever it was, it was obviously something horrible and traumatic.

            Instead, you decide to focus on comforting her, knowing that it’s all you can really do. “Mon Cœur,” you say softly. You know you probably mispronounced the second part pretty badly, but that’s not important right now, as long as it got the point across. You offer a tiny, somewhat hopeful smile, and reach to tuck some hair behind her ear.

            As soon as your hand makes contact with her hair, however, Ryland flinches badly, jumping away from you as much as she can in her present state – still connected to an IV, no less – her expression full of fear.

            “I’m sorry!” you apologize quickly. She’s never reacted that way before, so there’s no way you could have really expected it, but you still feel guilty for scaring her. It’s only natural that she would be on edge right now, and now you’ve gone and added to it.

            The fear soon leaves her expression though, as she looks into your eyes. “C’est…” She stops, taking a deep breath. “It’s… It’s okay. Désolé, I’m still…” She shakes her head. Ryland isn’t even entirely sure how she would finish the sentence. Even now in the hospital, safely away from him and knowing he was arrested, she’s still feeling shaken to her core. And at the same time, she’s also feeling what she assumes to be lingering effects of the anesthesia, and they only further her unease. She’s never had surgery before, so it’s completely unfamiliar.

            “It’s okay. I understand,” you assure her, although you realize as soon as the words have left your mouth that honestly, you don’t understand, at least not entirely. You have no idea what she’s been through, let alone how it must have affected her.

            “How much do you know?” she asks. She doesn’t want to talk about it, but she knows she never really will, and she’d rather you know what happened.

            You bite your lip briefly, hesitating. “Almost nothing, but more importantly… are you sure you’re ready to talk about it?”

            She brings one hand to her abdomen, where the stab wound is, though you don’t know why. “I am not exactly able to forget about it. And I want you to know.”

            “Okay.” You won’t argue with her if she wants to talk about it. You just hope she isn’t pushing herself too much for your sake. Wanting to offer some reassurance, you start to reach for her hand, but this time you stop partway for her to choose whether to accept the contact or not. You’re not sure whether her reaction earlier was a one-off, having to do with touching her head or hair specifically, or not wanting to be touched at all after what happened, and whatever it is, you want to respect her needs. “Just, know that I’ll understand if you want to stop and wait until later, okay?”

            She accepts your hand, lacing your fingers together. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Ryland is quiet a while as she tries to prepare herself to discuss what happened. “The good news is that he was arrested. …The stalker.”

            “Oh, thank goodness,” you sigh in relief. It doesn’t take away the knowledge that he has done something to hurt her badly, but it does mean that he can’t hurt her anymore.

            “He broke into my house,” she continues. She hears you gasp, and it only adds to her discomfort, but she continues to force words out. She feels like she’s detaching from her body again, and she gives your hand a light squeeze to try to prevent it. “I tried to get to my phone to call 911, but he…” There’s a small tremor to her breath, and she looks away. After a while of silence, trying to get the words out, she gives up on that and simply moves her hand away to lift her blanket and raise the hem of her hospital gown. Just enough to show you the bandage upon her thigh.

            You eyes widen in shock, but she’s still looking away from you.

            She glances at you briefly to confirm that you saw the injury, then moves her gown back into place. “He had a knife,” she says softly. “He—he… kept me on the ground… Threatened to cut my throat if I tried to get away again…” One hand moves to ghost over her throat.

            There are tears in her eyes, and you just barely stop yourself from reaching out to attempt to comfort her. You don’t want to risk making things worse.

            “Needless to say, it… seemed wiser to obey.”

            “Thank god you’re safe now,” you murmur, distressed at the thought of that. You don’t feel like you have much right to feel that way though, because it wasn’t you who was threatened at knifepoint.

            She doesn’t see it that way, however. It means a lot to her to see your empathy, and she offers something that resembles part of a smile. It soon drops and her hands clasp together as she remains silent for quite a while. “In short,” she finally says, a hand touching the wound on her abdomen again, “as for why I’m here… apparently he got some sort of sick joy out of stabbing me.” Her hand moved to lightly touch the side of her ribcage. “I couldn’t really understand what they were saying anymore, by the time the ambulance came, but… blood loss, and I… think he might have hit my lung.”

            Her lung?! You try to calm yourself with the fact that the doctor told you there shouldn’t be any lasting complications, and the fact that she’s still talking, but you’re still worried. Singing is her entire life, just as it is yours. “Does it still hurt?”

            She shakes her head, but then looks at the IV needle in the crook of her elbow. It does hurt some, but it's nothing compared to earlier. “I imagine they have given me something for the pain.”

            “Well… I’m glad it doesn’t hurt anymore, at least.”

            “Mmhmm.”

            A silence falls over the two of you, and suddenly you can’t stop the words from pouring out. “And I’m so glad that you’re okay. I mean, the… When I got here, all the receptionist could tell me was that you’d come in in critical condition and were in surgery, and I was so scared…!”

            Your rambling is cut off as she pulls you into a hug. “But as you said yourself, I am safe now.”

            You nod, but before you can say anything—

            The door opens. “Oh! Sorry to interrupt…”

            You pull away, wiping at the corners of your eyes. It seems the doctor has come back to check on Ryland. You’re still sitting on Ryland’s bed, so the doctor takes the chair you had been sitting in before. You move a little so that you’re hopefully not in the way of anything.

            “How are you feeling, Ryland?”

            “Fine.” That answer doesn’t surprise you. Now that somebody other than you is here, even if it is her doctor, Ryland’s guard is back up. The truth is that she’s really not, but it doesn’t matter in terms of answering.

            The doctor surveys her, seeming a little suspicious about that answer, but Ryland doesn’t let anything show through, so she decides to accept it. “I’m glad to hear that,” she says. “We also need to talk about recovery.”

            If the subject makes Ryland anxious, she doesn’t let it on… but then again, that’s no surprise. You’ve learned long ago that just because she doesn’t show something doesn’t mean she isn’t feeling it.

            Luckily, as promised earlier, it seems to be all good news. The doctor explains what the injuries were and what the surgery did, potential complications – mostly just the risk of infection, and what to watch for – and how to take care of the recovering wounds. She can’t do anything too strenuous for a while, and because of her lung, that does include singing… but it’s only temporary. Past that, it seems you probably don’t have much of anything to worry about. “Any questions?”

            She touches the bandage on her cheek. “Is this going to leave a scar?”

            Oh, no. You hadn’t even thought about that, and it only then occurs to you how terrible that would be. The other injuries are bound to, you both know, but on her face? Not only would she have to be reminded of it every time she looked in the mirror, but… while the others can be easily covered with clothing, all that she could do for her face is hope that makeup can do the job. You’ve heard that it can, but that still means having to put it on every single time she leaves the house. Unless she chooses not to cover it, but that would mean every single new fan and person who saw her would probably get curious, and that could affect her reputation. You know she wouldn’t want that. She already hates that the stalking has become public knowledge as it is.

            Dr. Torres’ expression doesn’t exactly suggest she has good news to offer. “I’m sorry,” she says, and you can’t help but to think that that’s pretty much the last thing anybody wants to hear from a doctor, “but yes. Keeping it covered will help, but there’s no way to avoid it completely. Once the stitches dissolve, you can consult with a dermatologist about it. There are some things that can be done to help them not stand out as much. You can do the same with the other scars, after we take the stitches out.”

            But there will still be scars. Ryland gives no visible emotional reaction, but she’s hit by a combination of fear and despair. There’s no doubt in her mind that this will affect her career.

            You wish you knew what was on her mind, under that unreadable neutral expression. You want to be able to help, but you can’t do it if you have no idea what she’s feeling. But you also know for a fact that she won’t open up while the doctor is there, if she will at all.

            “But like I said, other than the scarring, you should have a full recovery!” the doctor says, trying to lift Ryland’s spirits, at least a little. “I know that this situation is tough, but you’re a fighter, ‘kay? I mean… lots of people might not have come out of all that alive. You got pretty lucky!” She offers a smile, which Ryland makes no effort to reciprocate. She didn’t really expect her to, though. “Anything else I can help you with?”

            “No.”

            “Alright… Let me know if anything comes up.” When Ryland’s only response is a nod, she looks somewhat awkward as she stands and leaves the room.

            When it’s just the two of you again, you look to Ryland, wondering if she’ll tell you what’s on her mind. You don’t want to just try to take guesses, because you doubt she would correct you other than to claim that she’s fine. Or do that thing she does, where she purposely leads you to think something and lets you believe it…

            She looks back at you, expression completely neutral. You think she can see your concern, because she says, “Well, makeup exists for a reason. This is one of them. Between that and whatever it is they are able to do, I doubt anything will be noticeable.” She’s putting on a brave face, though. The truth is that she’s _afraid_ , and the one she really wants to reassure is herself.

            You’re not sure whether or not to believe that she’s really thinking that about it. “You’re really brave,” you murmur. Whether she believes what she said or not, she’s made it through something terrible. Still is making it through it, you suppose. And that makes her incredibly brave in your eyes.

            She smiles, though she doesn’t really believe it. “One does try their best. …Did you come here alone?”

            “No, of course not. I, um… I was probably too worried to drive particularly well.” You tell her that your best friend and Dante came with, but gave the two of you some privacy. “Oh! I need to tell them that you’re awake.” Sure that they’re worrying, you start to get out your phone, then hesitate. You and Ryland were in the middle of talking, after all, and now you curse yourself for changing the subject. She was probably unlikely to open up anyway, but now that seems even more the case.

            “Go ahead,” she says, since you’ve hesitated. She doesn’t know why, but either way, her response is the same.

            “Alright. I’ll be back in a minute,” you say. It’s too serious for just a text, so you decide to take the call into the hallway, even if Ryland will still be able to hear.

            They’re relieved to hear that Ryland pulled through. You try to keep the details minimal since people can overhear, and you promise to talk to them more when you get kicked out for the end of visiting hours.

            Unfortunately, you only have a couple of hours until that happens. And when you go back in to spend more time with Ryland, she seems inclined to talk about anything but the situation at hand and to pretend that she’s fine. Maybe she really is, but you’re dubious. And by dubious, you mean concerned.

            But when you’re informed that visiting hours are over, she kisses you, tells you she’ll be fine, and that she’ll see you tomorrow.

            “The _second_ it’s visiting hours,” you promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: hospitals, discussion of injuries, discussion of the violence from last chapter, dissociation.


	7. I Try So Hard to Fight It, but It's Hopeless

            Ryland is supposed to be getting discharged today. She doesn’t think any news has made her happier in a long time. …Or so she thought, when the news was first given.

            But while being discharged means leaving the uncomfortable, perfectly sterile, impersonal hospital… it also means leaving the place where help can be received in a matter of seconds and summoned near-effortlessly. Going home means going to sleep in a room no more than 40 feet from where she was attacked. And on top of that, being vulnerable to sudden appearances of the paparazzi.

            Her heart is racing, and she can’t catch her breath. Why can’t she breathe? …No, she tells herself, _calmez-toi_. It is not the first time that has happened, nor has it only been since the surgery. And every other time, she has survived. Now won’t be any exception, she tells herself. It’s rather distressing for these things to come entirely _de nulle part_ … but, she tells herself again, it will pass. No matter how she feels right now, it will pass.

            Tears want to form, but she refuses to allow them to do so. She refuses to cry anymore. It feels like everybody has been telling her that she’s brave. She must be stronger than to continue crying over everything, she tells herself. She feels as though she has shed more tears in the past week than she has in the past few _years_ , and she refuses. She’s too panicked to take deep breaths to calm herself, but she still forces the tears back.

            Her trembling hands clench into fists around the blanket. She just wants to be able to breathe right now. Her chest is tight and burning. It’s nothing new, though. She has gotten through this before, and she tries to assure herself that it will pass once again.

            Perhaps she ought to ask a doctor. It isn’t like she would have to go out of her way to do so. She doesn’t know what’s happening when this sets in. And she’s just suspicious that the answer she receives will not be one that she wishes to hear. Feeling unable to breathe can’t possibly be a good sign.

            She ever knows how to make it stop. All she can do, as always, is wait for it to pass. Powerless, just like she has been through this entire ordeal.

            But also as always, her breathing eventually slows back to normal. She puts a hand to her chest. She’s fine… It’s passed. She’s fine.

            However, something else she feels she really needs to look into is what in the world the press have been saying about her and her situation. As much as it can be quite unpleasant to do, she feels that it is important to know what is being said about her. That’s particularly the case considering that the press is likely to ask her about whatever they’ve been saying. As much as she would very much prefer not to discuss it at all, and that the entire matter could be forgotten, she knows that won’t happen, and she needs to prepare herself as best she can. Now more than ever, she feels that it’s critical that she remain conscious of how she appears in front of the press. She absolutely cannot falter in front of them. It’s more important than ever for her to be aware of how she is perceived by the public, and that begins with how she is represented by the press.

            You brought Ryland her phone yesterday, so she can use that. It’s sadly simple: all she needs to do is a search for her name. After things such as her official website, there are pages of articles speculating about her recent situation. She chooses the one nearest the top, figuring it would be the most read, and it’s one of the bigger gossip sites.

                        _“Yesterday morning, an ambulance was seen at the house of Ryland Lumiere! After recent rumors of stalking, could it be serious? The hospital has been unwilling to release any information concerning what happened or her condition._

_“In recent weeks, police have been seen more frequently around Ryland’s neighborhood, following the appearance of a bloody box full of dead mice! Though neither she nor her girlfriend have been willing to confirm rumors or respond to requests for further information about the situation, rumors of stalking have abounded._

_“Moreover, before the ambulance arrived, police arrived at the scene. It leaves all of us wondering: could Ryland have been attacked?_

_“Check back for updates when sources can be reached!”_

            So they knew about all of… that…

_And then he’s holding a knife to her throat and she immediately goes tense, stilling completely. She knows he isn’t afraid to break her skin. “I would stop moving, if I were you.”_

_A breath escapes her. She feels the chill of metal against her throat. Now she’s shaking uncontrollably, and tears begin to roll down her cheeks in a silent prayer as she realizes just how completely helpless she is right now._

_“You’re so cute when you’re scared.”_

_“S’il te plaît,” she manages, her voice choked._

_“Stop crying.” He makes a shallow incision upon her cheek._

            She comes back to reality, tears in the corners of her eyes. What just happened? She puts her phone down, drawing her knees to her chest and covering her face. She has about an hour left until you’ll be there, so she assumes she will have some privacy for now.

            But… what just happened? It was as… as though it was happening all over again. Like she was _there_. _Again._

            There is a shudder to her breath, but she won’t let herself cry. Absolutely not. She will not cry. Not… not anymore.

            She waits until the risk seems to have passed before uncovering her face. …She really hopes that will be enough of that, now. The question of what just happened continue to nag at her, but it must have just been an odd fluke, right? Even if it wasn’t the first time. So for now, she will just pretend it never happened…

            She decides she may as well get ready for when you arrive. When you offered to bring her phone, she also asked you to bring some other things as well, such as a change of clothing. By that point it was fairly late in the day and there was little point in bothering with makeup, and she felt a little too strange to go put up her hair by that time, so she cannot deny that it is still bothering her.

            First things first, she starts to brush out her hair so she can finally wash it. She flinches when the brush catches on the parts that have gotten bloodied. Not just because it pulls, but because of the reminder… She supposes it’s no surprise that she would continue to think of it so shortly after it happened, no matter how much she wishes she wouldn’t. At any rate, she supposes that the only thing that can be done about it is to get the blood out first.

            She will also have to clean along the wounds and put new bandages on them, so she prepares the necessary supplies, along with clean clothing and a towel. Now for the part that she is feeling… uncomfortable about, even though she really doesn’t know why. She begins to undress, because naturally, she can’t exactly shower with her clothing on. Even if that clothing is just a hospital gown.

            Once finished with that, she steps into the shower. Even still, she feels unsettled. She cant put her finger on the reason, but she wants to be done with it. There is nothing for her to be afraid of, and yet… that is how she feels. It is ridiculous. For that reason, she decides her best course of action is simply to ignore it.

            She starts with her wounds, though she will have to deal with the one on her face later, since she can’t see it without a mirror like she can the others. All she can do is try to force out the thoughts of how much worse he could have done. How he could have hit the artery in her thigh, how he could have stabbed her stomach itself or another organ in her abdomen, how it would have ended in disaster if the ambulance had come later than it had… How he could have very well slit her throat… Her hands shake as she goes about her task, but not enough to interfere with it too much. –Finished. There, that should mean she’s done with the worst part. Now she can go about the rest of her shower in peace until it comes time to deal with her hair.

            …Or not. Washing her arms is fine, but as soon as she begins to wash her torso, a horrible wave of nausea crashes into her, and she has to stop, holding onto the support rail as though overcome with some sort of vertigo. She feels panicky again, too.

            Okay, perhaps it is… too soon for that, in some way she doesn’t really understand. Deciding to let it go for now is the only way she can force away the thoughts of his hands on her and, with it, the nausea, so she decides to choose her battles. She knows that the latest she can put it off is tomorrow, but for right now she just wants to finish this so she can get dressed. That’s the only positive thing she can really focus on right now, because even your arrival will become something potentially awkward if she’s struggling even to get ready.

            She will just wash her hair and finish up, then. Remembering the blood still in her hair makes her internally cringe with disgust, and she starts to feel nauseous again.

            She waits until the danger of that seems to have passed before moving on to wash her hair. She begins with the most difficult part, as is typically her habit, but when her hands touch the dried blood in her hair, she can feel distress rising anew. And not just in the sense of the fact that it is difficult, or that it is unpleasant to have to touch her own blood, although certainly both of those things are accurate as well.

            She lets water wash over her face, allowing it to distract her. As though it could wash away her thoughts and fears. Perhaps if she tries hard enough to pretend that it can, it actually will. She is far from naïve enough to really believe something like that, but for once, she wishes she could. That said, it is at least enough to help her get through the process of removing the blood.

            _I hate my hair_. The thought comes to her from nowhere, completely and totally unprecedented, as she is washing the rest of it. She hates it. A reckless, tempting thought follows, that she could very easily do something about that – an impulse to get some scissors from somewhere and chop it off into a pixie cut. As though that would somehow make her feel safer. But she knows that she would regret that immediately and immensely, so she quells the urge as best she can. She really doesn’t understand why she suddenly hates her hair so much, but she decides she doesn’t want to dwell on that question and would rather just ignore it for now. Just like so many other things…

            She has never been so glad to be done with a shower. But when she has finished drying off and dressing, she feels some of the added stress begin to lift. It comes back with the noise of the blow-dryer on her hair, but lucky she is able to ignore it enough to go about her task without issue.

            Next, she needs to tend to the wound on her cheek. Upon removing the bandage, she winces as she views it for the first time. She isn’t so bothered by the prospect of scars on her chest, abdomen, or thigh, which are easily hidden from view by clothing. But her face? Yes, there are corrections that can be done to lessen the degree of visibility, but she will still be dependent upon makeup to hide it completely. If that’s possible at all. And, of course, for a while she will be stuck with an extremely obvious bandage on her cheek. There is no way for her to hide that when she inevitably ends up photographed by the press – because honestly, she isn’t even going to bother trying to convince herself that she’ll be able to stay out of the public eye until she’s able to remove the bandage.

            She’s washing the wound when she hears the door to the hospital room open and close. She drops the washcloth, breathing and heart rate picking up…

            Until she hears your voice. “Ryland?”

            _C’est juste Mon Amour_. She picks the washcloth back up and holds it to her cheek, slightly hesitant for you to see her with… the remnants of a gash on her face. With that, she opens the restroom door enough to see her from her place next to the sink. “Sorry, I’m still getting ready.”

            You smile, coming in and leaning against the bathroom wall. “It’s okay. I bet you’ll be glad to be going home though, huh? With him still in police custody and all.” You know that it’s too soon to quite go back to your regular lives, but this feels to you like a start. You just hope that it feels the same to her.

            Honestly, the truth is that she’s terrified. Even so, she forces a smile as though in agreement. “Let us just say that my furniture is much more comfortable, and my food is _much_ better…”

            There’s that snarky sense of humor that you’re used to. You smile back, hoping that she’s being genuine.

            It’s only been since yesterday that she’s been able to see you smile like that again. A real smile, free of the fear that was such a constant before. The truth is that it’s because the stalker is behind bars, but for her, it feels like it’s only because you think she’s able to put it behind her and thus you don’t feel like you have to worry anymore. She doesn’t want you to have to suffer anymore, and so she doesn’t want you to know that she has yet to get her fear to fade.

            Unfortunately, there is no way for her to finish cleaning her wound without you seeing now. She looks at you hesitantly, but there is no way to avoid it, so she goes ahead and cleans it. When she must remove the washcloth and put a new bandage on it, her eyes stay on your reflection in the mirror. You look surprised at first, and then your earlier happiness quickly crumbles into an expression of sadness.

            She desperately wants to protect your happiness. That is the thought that she can’t help but to focus on, and why she doesn’t want to allow you to know that she’s still affected by this. She feels that she has caused you enough fear and pain as it is. Once the bandage is on, she turns to you with a smile. “I need to put on my makeup and do my hair still… but do you think you could give me a hand?” She picks up her brush and offers it to you, hairpins readily accessible on the counter.

            And just like that, your smile lights up again. Ryland has let you do her hair a time or two in the past, and she finds it cute how, for some reason, you really seem to enjoy it. She enjoys it as well, the feeling of someone doing her hair for her, although she does think that today she’ll feel significantly better with it up. “Of course!”

            You accept the brush, and she gets her foundation. Although she thinks it best to hold off on eye makeup until you’ve finished, foundation is simple enough. She feels the brush begin to move through her hair.

_“What shall I do with you now, my princess?”_

_She feels like vomiting._

_He knows exactly what he is going to do, though. He strokes her hair, and then his hands move over her chest, and she doesn’t dare to move, because the still-expanding crimson bloom on the carpet makes unforgettable the ease with which his nauseating caress could turn into a puncture._

_His hands move lower, and she wants to cry, wants to be sick, wants to… she doesn’t even know, but it doesn’t matter because she doesn’t dare. She doesn’t, she can’t._

            “Ryland?”

            A small, panicked sound escapes her, and she jerks away so roughly that her elbow crashes into the wall. She nearly falls until arms encircle her, drawing her close to your body. At first the fear courses harder in her, but then she hears a soft sound:

            “Shh, I’m here. It’s okay.”

            She feels as though she could cry, but with no small amount of effort, she manages to hold back the tears. After she has managed to regain enough of her composure to face you with a neutral expression, she pulls slightly away.

            Your eyes are full of concern as they meet hers, having no idea when she suddenly got so scared.

            “Sorry. It’s nothing,” she tells you. She promised you before that she would never lie to you, but she doesn’t feel like she has any other choice. She doesn’t even know how she would begin to explain what just happened. It’s the second time something like that has occurred, and she still has no idea what to make of it.

            “It’s not nothing,” you insist, and it’s painfully obvious to Ryland that she’s caused you to worry again. “Ryland… you were shaking. What’s wrong?”

            She knows that there’s no way she’ll be able to convince you that everything is fine. Even so, she opts for something more easily dealt with than whatever her mind has been doing recently. “I just got caught up thinking about…” She hesitates, rubbing her forearm to emphasize her unease at talking about it, better selling the idea that that is truly all it is and she is simply hesitant to speak of it. She knows she’s intentionally misleading you, but she doesn’t know what else to do. “Sooner or later – most likely sooner – I am not going to have any choice in facing the press. I’m less than excited for the questions they will likely ask, and even more so at the prospect of their inquiring about my injuries. You just startled me.” And now she’s outright lying. The guilt hurts.

            The uncertainty is clear in your expression. You don’t quite know whether or not you should believe her, but then again, you don’t know what else it could be. You decide to, for now, go along with it. “I know it will be tough, but… you know, you don’t have to tell them everything. It’s fine to say sometimes that something is just personal and you don’t want to talk about it.”

            “And then they will speculate things likely ten times worse than reality. You know how the media is. And worse, there are fans who will believe those speculations.” The truth is that, even if it isn’t what she was thinking about earlier, it is something that has been on her mind since the day she woke from surgery.

            You hesitate, wishing you could disagree, but you’re forced to admit, “Yeah… I guess you’re kind of right about that.” More hesitation. “…I’m sorry. I can’t think of any way around it…” You hate that, but there really is nothing you can do.

            She shakes her head. “No, it is fine. I suppose I will just have to be honest with them. There is little reason to be bothered by talking about it now, non? After all, it is in the past.”

            You’re visibly uncertain once more, really not sure you believe it’s already ‘in the past.’ You still don’t even know if you believe that she’s being honest about why she was scared. Still, you’re not sure if you should call her on it, so you let it go for now. “Yeah.” At some point you’ll have to try to get her to let you help, but for now you continue to let it go. After all, she’s still in the hospital, for goodness’ sake.

            She smiles, although it’s not anywhere near as genuine as it appears. “Shall we continue?” Honestly, she doesn’t know if it’s a good idea to allow you to continue doing her hair, considering what just happened, but she can’t think of a convincing reason to change her mind and suggest doing it herself.

            “Okay,” you agree. You wait while she situates herself back at the mirror.

            She dropped her foundation at some point, and she looks down to see it spilled in the sink. She doesn’t like to see things go to waste, but it’s too late for that. While she’s picking her foundation up, she keeps her eyes on your reflection in the mirror again. When she sees that you’re about to begin, she braces herself. She can feel the tension in her body, her stomach in horrible knots, but she manages to avoid slipping back into the past. For now, at least…

            Her movements are robotic as she applies her makeup. She’s glad that you’re distracted by working on her hair, so you don’t seem to notice. Ryland has to pay attention to her own face to do her makeup, but she continues to look at your reflection every so often.

            She finishes her makeup, minus eye products, but you’re still in the process of pinning her hair. With nothing else to do with them, her hands grip the counter. Without any distraction, it feels harder to keep her mind off things she really does not want to dwell upon again. She’s quite relieved when you’ve finished with her hair.

            “Done!” you announce.

            She turns to you, smiling. “Merci, Mon Lapin.” She kisses you, and you smile into the kiss. Love swells in Ryland’s chest, and she briefly deepens the kiss before pulling away. “…Mon Ciel Étoile,” she murmurs. You look at her so adoringly, and it’s only in French that she’s able to attempt to communicate with words how unconditionally returned that feeling is.

            You beam at her. Even if you don’t understand the words themselves, you do understand the sentiment. For Ryland, too, all of the fear and tension from earlier seems to have melted away during your kiss. She feels calmer than she has in… a very long time. Perhaps everything really will be alright.

            “I just need to finish my makeup, and then I will be ready to go,” Ryland tells you.

            “Okay.”

            You watch as she applies her eye makeup. When she’s done, she smiles at you once more. “Shall we get going?”

            “Let’s,” you agree.

            Ryland just needs to pack her things, and then she’ll be ready to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: panic attacks, flashbacks, blood, nausea


	8. It's Killing Me

            The trip back went by without press incident, luckily. Being back in her home, where she was attacked… she can’t deny that it made her uneasy at first. But you stayed with her a while, and by the time you left, she actually felt relatively comfortable. Which she’s rather glad about, considering that it’s her own home. She also doesn’t fail to note that it’s been cleaned, which she correctly guesses is probably your doing when you got some things for her. She wanted to thank you, but the embarrassment of acknowledging it prevented her from actually thanking you for it.

            She really does have herself pretty convinced that she’s fine now. Those incidents haven’t happened since leaving the hospital, and she’s almost beginning to think that she might have been right about the possibility of putting the matter behind her. She really hopes she can, at least.

            Of course, she still needs to deal with her physical wounds. She only just realized, however, that she doesn’t have any bandages or anything to cover them after cleaning them tomorrow, so… here she is, getting ready to go out. At night. _Mais il est d’accord, non?_ He’s in police custody. It’s fine. She’ll be fine. _Je suis bien_.

            She steps outside, glancing around and trying to calm her heart, which is starting to beat too quickly again. Why does that keep happening…?

            She checks the seats of her car before opening the door and getting in, which is never something she’s been in the habit of doing until recently. But it is rather logical under recent circumstances, she tells herself. Definitely not her being paranoid.

            That said, the trip goes rather uneventfully… until she leaves the store.

            There are at least a dozen reporters there. Honestly? The idea of speeding up and walking right past them crosses her mind. Because there is no doubt that they are there because of her. To ask her the things that they have been dying to and speculating about. But she can’t run. Not only on general principle – she doesn’t run from her problems – but because it will only make things worse in the end. Who knows what types of rumors would begin if she did that? So she stops, moving out of the walkway so she doesn’t prevent other shoppers from leaving the store.

            “We’ve finally run into the elusive Ryland Lumiere!” one reporter says before laughing.

            She really doesn’t feel like laughing right now. And ‘run into’? What a joke. Someone must have seen her at the store and tipped them off about her being there.

            “Ryland, do you have anything to say about your recent absence from the spotlight?”

            Oh, she has plenty of things she would love to say to them at the moment… but they are the press, and her reputation is important to her. She doesn’t want to allow it to become even further tarnished by speaking rudely to reporters. “I have been tending to some personal matters,” she decides upon. She will answer their questions, but she isn’t interested in volunteering more information than is absolutely necessary.

            “Can you tell us anything about the recent rumors of stalking?”

            She can tell him one thing, alright: it’s none of his business. Of course, that is another statement that falls well into the category of things she should not say, for reputation’s sake. –Her heart is pounding again. Her chest feels tight when she tries to breathe. “Unfortunately, I must confirm them.” It takes no small amount of willpower not to avert her eyes from them. But she is already in this position… the _victim_. She absolutely cannot allow herself to show any further weakness. Particularly not in front of them. “However, he has already been arrested.”

            “Then, is it true that he broke into your house?”

            _I can’t breathe I can’t breathe je ne peux pas respirer je ne peux pas_

            “Yes.” A single syllable miraculously finds its way out, though her lungs feel as though they may explode.

            “And that was when you were taken to the hospital?”

            She nods. She isn’t sure she can speak. She doesn’t feel like she can breathe. No air will come… _Mon cœur est va exploser tout se fane je ne peux pas entendre– **qu'est-ce qu'il m'arrive**_

            “…anything else… you’d like to share…”

            Half words. She knew this question was coming – she knew it – but she…

            _And suddenly, he does stop. Pauses, at least. For now. “Well, I should save one of the best parts for last.” He picks up his knife again. “When the time comes, how shall I kill you? I could slice your throat – that might be nice to watch – but I want your beautiful head in tact.” A finger trails the side of her ribs. “I’ve been researching the body. How I can get through to your lungs. You’ll stay beautiful that way.”_

_Fear and revulsion turn her stomach one too many times. She turns her head to the side as she vomits._

_“Well, that’s rather less than appealing. Let’s move you, shall we?” Her body is limp as he drags her across the floor to the center of the room._

_She’s sobbing now, and she’s entirely powerless to stop it, the detachment from her body preventing her from controlling anything at all._

_“What did I tell you about that?” he growls. The knife all but disappears from her abdomen, and there is a shock as he removes it, blood bubbling forth._

_This time, that doesn’t make it any easier to stop. She can’t. She hears herself whimpering, and as her hands rise to cover her face, she can’t tell if the wetness she feels is more blood or tears. “Pourquoi?” Her voice is weak. It sounds pathetic and helpless to her ears. Pleading. “Pourquoi est-ce que tu me fais ça?” Why? Why are you doing this to me?_

_“You’re getting awfully annoying. The French would be hot, if you’d stop your sniveling.” Ryland hears the tearing of cloth as the knife scratches along the side of her ribs, not quite breaking the skin. “Maybe I ought to just skip ahead.”_

_She can’t even think. Her mind has gone completely blank. All she knows is fear and terror and desperation._

_“I know another way to shut you up,” he decides. “Sit.” He starts to pull her up by her shoulders, but she flops back down, limp like a doll. She wants to obey for fear of what he will do if she doesn’t, but her body won’t allow her to. “Oh, come on. You’ll be boring like this. Are you all played out already?” Even as he says this, he’s beginning to undo his belt anyway._

            “…nd… Ryland?”

            Intent looks expecting answers, and she—she can’t. She can’t.

            “Non,” is the only word that can come, and her body is shaking, and how long have these tears been falling?

            She takes a step back, stumbles, and falls to the ground, and _she has to get up; she has to get away, but her body won’t move_ and she’s mortified and _they’re staring at her and cameras are right there and…_

            “Alright, this is private property. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” A security guard. To the press.

            Begrudgingly, they oblige. The guard offers Ryland a hand to help her up. All she can do is stare. He kneels down. “Do you want to come inside? …Is there anything I can get you? …Do you maybe want to call someone?” His questions are spoken slowly, and each is asked in response to her inability to produce a response.

            She stands. Her legs feel like gelatin. “I-I’m… going to my car.”

            “May I escort you?”

            Can she trust him? How does she know? Why does he want to? “I will be fine.”

            He looks at her dubiously, not believing her in the slightest. It’s clear what a lie that is.

            “Alright, just… promise me you won’t try to drive till you’ve calmed down. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

            She goes across the parking lot to her car, gets in and locks the doors. The lights in her car are off, but can anyone looking in – such as press – see her? She wants to go home, where she’s safer or at least hidden from the press, but she can’t breathe. What’s wrong with her? She can’t… can’t breathe…

            With shaking hands, she dials a number, not even expecting an answer with how late it is.

            “…Hello, Dr. Torres speaking.”

            “This is Ryland. Lumière.”

            “Hey, Ryland… Is everything alright?”

            She holds back a sob. “I can’t breathe.”

            “Okay, how long has this been going on?”

            “I don’t know. Je ne sais pas… Je…” In French, words like _weak_ and _pathetic_ and _coward_ ring through her mind.

            “Sorry, I need you to stick to English for me, okay? Did it just start now?”

            “A-a minute ago… I think…”

            “Has this happened before, that you’ve felt out of breath?”

            “Yes.”

            “How long ago did it start?”

            “Je– I don’t know… a couple of months ago…”

            “Okay. Listen, I know you’re scared, but it’s going to be okay. This’ll pass and you’ll be fine.”

            She doesn’t answer, feeling unable to understand the doctor’s words.

            “Hey, I happen to be at the hospital right now, actually. Why don’t you come in and we can talk about it in person?” She suggests Ryland bring you with her as well. “Maybe have her pick you up? I kinda don’t think you should be driving right now. You sound pretty upset.”

            She needs to be brave. She needs to protect you. She needs to let you be happy. “I will be there as soon as I can. Thank you.”

            “Yeah, no problem. I’ll see you soon.”

            A sound of confirmation. Ryland ends the call. She can’t drive like this. She can’t bother you… she can’t _burden_ you. She has to do this on her own. She has to calm down… She has to _breathe_.

            She does wish you were there. She feels pathetic for it, but she feels _safer_ when you’re with her. She knows hearing your voice would make it just a little easier… but she will not. She won’t put her needs before yours, as it feels like she would be doing. She isn’t so pathetic, as it seems to her she would be, that she can’t get through this herself and have to trouble you with it. She isn’t that pathetic. She isn’t.

            She folds her arms over the steering wheel and puts her head down. All she can do is try to calm herself. She can hear her painful, ragged, rapid-fire breaths too clearly like that, though. –The radio. Her hands are still shaking, but she fumbles with it, attempting to turn it on. Unfortunately, she has yet to actually start the car. _Stupide, sot, débile… Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas avec moi?_

            She manages to start the car, and then the radio. The music helps. She puts her head down again, trying to force the tears away. She has certainly had enough experience with that in the last couple of days. And eventually, her breathing starts to even out.

            Alright. She’s fine. She’s okay. She’ll go to the hospital and everything will be fine.

            She leaves the radio on, but she is no longer shaking, and she no longer feels the same “cannot breathe” terror as she did a minute ago. She doesn’t see any benefit to sitting around in the parking lot any longer, so she decides that now is as good a time as any to take her leave. Luckily, it isn’t a far drive to the hospital. It doesn’t take her long to get there and to Dr. Torres’ office. The door is closed, so she knocks.

            “Coming!” Dr. Torres says, and after a moment she opens the door. “Ryland.” She smiles, but when she looks behind and around her and sees that Ryland has come alone, she frowns. “You didn’t bring her with?”

            “I waited a while before driving,” she tells her dismissively. The doctor holds the door open, and she enters, sitting down.

            “That’s not really what I meant…” She closes the door, then sits opposite her.

            Ryland knew full well what she meant. She wishes for her to reach out to you as a source of support. Her blood runs cold as she wonders if that means that whatever is going on is serious. Is she dying? She crosses her arms, intentionally appearing impatient instead of letting on her fears. “Regardless. Could you tell me what’s going on?”

            “Yeah, of course. Just let me ask you a few questions first.”

            She rolls her eyes. She isn’t actually upset, because she knows full well that Dr. Torres has no way of magically guessing her ailment without any information. Though, she seemed to have a pretty good idea on the phone earlier… “Ask away.” She sounds bored. As though she thinks this is stupid. She doesn’t, of course. It’s just her way of putting up walls.

            Dr. Torres doesn’t seem at all bothered by her attitude, which secretly, Ryland is relieved by. She knows that she’s pushing her away, and that she really shouldn’t given that she needs her information on whatever is happening. “Okay, so… when this happens – that you feel like you can’t breathe – is there anything that usually happens first? Like exercising, or getting scared by something, or is it just for no reason?”

            She really doesn’t want to admit the truth. She doesn’t want to admit to feeling scared, even if the doctor already heard her extremely distraught not so long ago, over the phone. Even so, she knows she shouldn’t lie to the doctor who needs information in order to help her. “Anyone would feel scared about _not being able to breathe,_ ” she retorts, arms still crossed.

            “Yeah, of course. But before that happens, is it like… For example, for some people, they think about something they’re terrified of, and then suddenly they feel like they can’t breathe. Stuff like that.”

            Ryland falters. Not visibly, but in terms of coming up with a response. There’s no way for her to avoid admitting it. Her posture shifts slightly, and she hates how weak and vulnerable she feels. “Yes.”

            She softens. “And, is there anything else that happens?”

            She can come up with an answer quite easily, and yet she feigns ignorance. She knows that the doctor is asking vaguely so as not to lead her to answer in any particular way, but the answers will have to be dragged out of her. “Anything else?”

            “Yeah. Like, other stuff that happens when it gets hard to breathe.”

            It would have been so much easier if the phrasing had led her only to have to confirm or deny something, as opposed to having to actually open up. Unfortunately, she has no choice in the matter. She shifts her expression back to a neutral one, because she feels that she already sounds pathetic and would rather at least avoid looking pathetic. “Shaking. My heart pounding.” She has to fight to keep her composure up. “I previously thought it was just the stress of the situation, but it is still happening, even now that he has been arrested.” She thinks back to her breakdown in front of the press, and she doesn’t know if it’s quite related to the matter at hand, but she still gives in and tells her. “Sometimes… it as though…” She pauses, looking away. “I do not know how to explain it. This may sound strange, but it is like… remembering it, but… as though it is real and I am experiencing it all over again.”

            “That’s gotta be hard,” she says. Her tone is one of understanding, lacking any sort of condescending sympathy that would undoubtedly anger Ryland. “Well, I can clear up a couple of things. The re-experiencing thing, those are called flashbacks, and they’re kind of common after someone experiences something traumatic like you did. And the feeling like you can’t breathe stuff, those are panic attacks, which… well, I know they’re awful, but they won’t kill you. They’ll always pass.”

            Panic attacks? Wonderful, just what she needs. “Then I don’t suppose this is something that is just going to go away?” she asks bluntly. No point in beating around the bush at this point.

            “Well… sometimes, yeah, but also sometimes it doesn’t. But it’s not something that you can never heal or anything like that. Here, I’ll…” She gets out a pad of Post-It notes and a pen, and writes something down. “I’m gonna refer you to a really great therapist I know, okay? I know, you probably don’t really want to see a therapist – most people say that – but she’ll be able to help. Promise.”

            She accepts the note the doctor hands her and puts it in her pocket. She can’t deny having next to no interest in the idea of seeing a therapist, particularly with the potential of it being discovered by the press. It would undoubtedly be better than continuing to experience the panic attacks and flashbacks, though, so if the therapist would indeed be able to help, she has to admit that would be preferable.

            “Oh, and Ryland? I know it’s not always easy to reach out, but… your girlfriend really cares about you, you know? I think she’d be happy to support you, if you told her what’s going on?”

            “Who’s to say that I have not already told her?” she bites back, ignoring the fact that of course she hasn’t told you.

            Dr. Torres looks at her, in thought. “Nothing, I guess…” she eventually says, “but you haven’t, have you?”

            Damn. Ryland lets her silence answer for her, instead of overtly confirming it.

            She offers a half smile. “To be honest, you kinda remind me of myself, when I was a bit younger… so I get it. At least, I think I do. You don’t wanna open up, you don’t wanna bug people?”

            She can only nod, forcing herself to hide any emotional reaction behind a look of annoyance.

            “…And that’s why you’re not fooling me by acting angry.”

            Ryland wants to give another biting response, but unfortunately, she can hardly argue with the matter. Moreover, although it is slightly surprising to her for someone to really understand her like that, it does explain Dr. Torres’ lack of reaction to her front of anger. Honestly, Ryland has never really met anyone who she failed to push away with it.

            “You can always talk to me, okay? I mean, I’m still your doctor, and this is still about your health, even if it’s not physical! But I also think you should talk to her about it.”

            “…I will keep that in mind,” she answers, keeping her tone forcibly even. She sounds as though she is still irritated by the offer, but even she doesn’t exactly know why. Defensive, still pushing her away, she supposes.

            “And you’ll at least try talking to the therapist?”

            She really doesn’t want to. But neither does she want to continue feeling miserable and making a fool of herself in her eyes due to flashbacks and panic attacks, so she doesn’t see any way around it. “I suppose so.”

            Dr. Torres smiles. “Alright. The rest of what I said, at least keep it in mind, ‘kay?” And then, she becomes a bit more serious for a moment. “…Seriously, though, it sucks to try to keep everything to yourself all the time. You’ve got people who care about you, so…” She trails off.

            “I will keep that in mind,” she says again.

            “Okay. Well then… Call me if anything else comes up. Otherwise, I’ll see you when you come in to get your stitches out.”

            She nods. Then, hesitantly: “Thank you.”

            “It’s no problem! I’m glad I was able to help some.” She grins at Ryland.

            She allows herself a small smile in the doctor’s direction before leaving. Thankfully, she’s able to get back home without any further incidents.

            At home, she is faced with the realization that she needs to tell you. Her run-in with the press is undoubtedly going to be all over the internet and beyond by tomorrow, and she would really prefer for you to hear about it from her. …It isn’t a degree of opening up she’s inclined to do sober. For tonight only, she decides that she is not above drinking alone, at least enough to get a little tipsy. Enough to make speaking of it a little less difficult.

            It is tempting to drink enough to be able to entirely forget, at least for the rest of the night, what happened with the press. But no matter how tempting it is, she tells herself she will cut herself off far before that, because she needs to be comprehensible when she talks to you. As much as she would love at least one night of being able to simply forget about all of this, putting off the conversation until the morning may mean that you would hear it elsewhere first… and she would have to explain it to you with a nasty hangover, to boot. Since that sounds unappealing on multiple levels, she tells herself she will exercise restraint.

            Quite a bit of alcohol later, she feels like it’s now or never. That is, until she realizes that if she calls you now, there’s no doubt you’ll be able to hear quite clearly in her voice that she has opted for some ‘liquid courage.’ She will text you, she decides. You’ll know as soon as you get there, yes, but at least you won’t spend the entire drive excessively worried. Because right now, Ryland feels completely fine. There’s no reason to worry about her, she thinks.

            “ _Ran into the press. They were ‘lovely’ as always. Come over and I can tell you about it?_ ” This is what she decides upon. She sends it, then waits for a response. Partly to hide the evidence, she gets up, intending to put away her glass and what remains of her vodka and soda.

            Losing her balance thanks to the alcohol, the world tilts and the next thing she knows she’s on the ground. Glass shatters.

_The television is off and her blood runs cold. She can’t breathe, and if she hadn’t become so familiar with the pounding of her heart these past weeks, she might honestly believe she is having an actual heart attack right now._

_Phone. Phone. Where did she leave her phone? She always had it with her. Was she calling the police over a small sound? But it was a potentially dangerous-seeming sound. She can’t breathe. She can’t remember where she put her phone. She can’t gather her thoughts into any semblance of order._

_Would her phone be in her room? She starts to turn. The movement is robotic, like she’s doing nothing more than following a routine to find her phone._

_Without warning, a heavy hand is on her shoulder and she’s thrown to the ground. Her body slams against the carpet, and she’s forced to look up at a man with the most unnerving smile she has ever seen. Her body feels numb, and she knows it will not do her any good, but she attempts to get up. She still wants to get her phone, and she knows it’s ridiculous and it’s far too late for her phone to help her now, but she needs to get her phone, and—_

_“Ah-ah-ah,” he tuts, shoving her heard by the shoulders back onto the ground. The reality is sinking in and she begins to thrash. She knows it’s a terrible idea, because he could be armed. He could kill her. He could be about to kill her, but she has to try to get away; she can’t just lie here and wait and—_

_“This will keep you from running.” His voice is devoid of emotion. He removes one hand from her shoulders, and she sees it as her opportunity to wrench her body away from him. Whatever it is that will ‘keep her from running,’ if she can just get to her room, lock the door behind her…_

            **Searing pain.** _She falls to the ground. Her thigh is absolutely burning, and lying on her stomach as she is, she can’t bring herself to try to move even enough to look at it._

 _He flips her onto her back and she sees a_ **knife**. _She looks down her body to see crimson rapid down her leg, soaking into the carpet. Her body is stiff as a board, and she curses the pounding of her heart that she knows is only causing more blood to pour, and_ ‘ **mon dieu ce qu'il va faire à moi** ’ _and she needs to ignore the pain; she needs to get away; she needs to escape; she needs to get her phone and call the police even if it might be too late, and maybe, maybe, maybe,_ ‘ **peut-être je peux survivre peut-être s’il te plaît s’il te plaît s’il te plait.** ’

            …You’re calling her. Her notifications inform her that she already has at least one missed call. She puts a hand to her head, knowing she has to answer you. She has at least one unread text, as well. How long was she caught in the flashbacks?

            The call times out. What did you text her? She opens it, or rather, ‘them,’ because there are three.

            “ _What?_

            “ _Is everything okay?_

“ _Why did you text me in French?_ ”

            …In French? What? She internally groans as she looks up at her message. Apparently she left autocorrect on French, meaning she sent you a bunch of nonsense. She feels awful after this flashback, and honestly she just wants to crawl into bed now. Normally alcohol just makes her feel good, but right now she feels like garbage and would just like to sleep it off. She knows that you’ll keep calling until she answers, though, because now she’s gone and worried you again.

            You start calling again, and she knows she has no choice but to answer. It would either be that or put it off and worry you further, and she doesn’t want to do that. “Allô,” she says as she faces it and answers the call.

            “Ryland? Are you okay?” Your voice comes immediately, high, worried.

            “Amoureux, c’est– I’m fine. I jus’ was not paying attention and left autocorrect on French.”

            “Okay… but why didn’t you answer my texts? Or calls?”

            And that would be what she needs to talk to you about, but it isn’t a conversation for the phone. “Wasn’t paying much attention to my phone. My apologies.”

            “…You don’t really sound that ‘fine.’ And that’s not really like you… What were you trying to say when you texted me, anyway?”

            “One question at a time,” she groans before she can stop herself. Lying, she can do. Lying drunk, however? She thinks she may have given herself away. “Merde.” Oh, no. She didn’t mean to say that out loud.

            “Ryland?” You’re almost as confused as you are extremely worried.

            “I…” She doesn’t want to admit how drunk she seems to have gotten herself. “…fell asleep. I can’t remember what I was trying to say… I must have already been half asleep. It is nice to be in a bed that is actually comfortable.” Guilt washes over her like a tidal wave for lying to you again.

            “Oh. Yeah, you must be tired…”

            “Mmhmm.”

            “And you’re sure everything is okay…?”

            “Just tired.” _Désolé, désolé…_

            “Okay. Get some sleep, then. Call me back in the morning?”

            …When she will be horribly hungover, most likely. “Will do.” _Ryland, tu sot._

            “Okay. Goodnight, Love.”

            That does bring, finally, a genuine smile to her. “Goodnight, Ma Princesse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: panic attacks, flashbacks to the attempted rape and attempted murder, alcohol abuse


	9. Catching Teardrops in My Hands

            Various French curse words swirl through her head. It has been a long time since she has been this hungover – not since she was younger and didn’t know her alcohol tolerance – and she feels as though her head is about to split open. Her phone is ringing, and she puts her pillow over her ears to help muffle the sound. She wants to take something for her headache, but she doesn’t want to get up, especially since she’s feeling nauseous.

            Tending to her phone can come later, she decides. The last thing she wants is to have to end the call to run off and be sick – which, worst of all, she fears could prompt another flashback – or beg the caller to speak more quietly for the sake of her head. But whatever it is, she will need to deal with it as soon as she can, and that means getting up now. Begrudgingly, slowly, she gets up. She first gets some painkillers, then brings them to the kitchen, where she makes some toast. Add that to a banana and some water, and she hopes she’ll be able to get herself together.

            Finally, once she’s feeling back to some degree of normalcy, she goes to check her phone.

            _Oh, mon dieu…_ Her missed calls are in the double digits, and she has multiple voicemails as well. Most of the calls are from you, but the list goes on. Demi… Holly… Lara… Danny… Her agent… The amount of dread increases with each name she sees.

            _Merde. Merde, enculer, fils de pute…!_ They must have released the news stories by now, and obviously, these calls must be in response to that. Her first impulse is to want to crawl back into bed and pretend none of it ever happened, but that won’t make this go away. She’s just going to have to call all of you back. One by one.

            She feels like she should call you back first, because she did promise last night to call you back, and she probably should have told you last night anyway. She hesitates, though, also feeling a little as though she may cry if she hears your voice right now. She decides to call Demi first, because… well. Demi knows firsthand how it feels to have her highly, **_highly_** personal matters made public knowledge by the press, and having to talk to everyone about it in interviews and having to come back from it in the eyes of fans and the general public. Also, Demi has already helped her out immensely when she helped her learn to start being more honest in front of the press. She strongly dislikes leaning on people, but she doesn’t think Demi will give her the option to resist accepting her support, and honestly, that might be nice right about now.

            Demi answers her phone within seconds. “Ryland! I’m glad to hear from you.”

            “Sorry. I was asleep.”

            “Yeah, I understand. How are you feeling? –No, wait. You’re still in LA, right? Can I come over so we can talk about it in person?”

            Ryland hesitates. “I do agree that might be preferable, but…” She tells Demi that she thinks that would probably hurt you, and she doesn’t want that. “I, uh… have not exactly told her everything, and she would probably be upset that I am talking to you about it before her. …Could you keep this between us?”

            “Of course. Thank you for trusting me – I know that’s not easy for you.”

            She offers a slightly noncommittal sound of agreement.

            “Back to my original question, then. How are you feeling?”

            “First of all, as though the media has been saying who-knows-what about me and I am uncertain if I truly even _want_ to know what. But I cannot avoid it forever. I assume you called me because you saw, so… would you mind? Telling me?”

            “Of course not. Well… it isn’t pretty, I’ll admit.”

            Demi is hesitating, so Ryland sighs and offers a guess. “Let me guess. They’re calling me weak, basically pathetic, my reputation is plummeting, my fans are disappointed?”

            “I’d love to tell you no…” Her sentence ends with a clear silent _but_.

            “Wonderful.” Ryland puts one hand to her forehead. “My reputation is going to need some serious repair work, and I have no idea how to get it back after… that.”

            “Well, luckily I know a thing or two about that. But right now, I’m more worried about _you_ than your reputation.”

            “And I would like to get my career back on track sooner rather than later to minimize the damage.” She doesn’t mean to sound harsh, and part of her does recognize that she probably shouldn’t speak in that way to someone who is trying to help her. But that is how she feels. Her image is more important than her present emotions.

            “I understand – trust me, I do. But in order to come back from something like this, you’ve gotta be in a healthier place. You’ll be fine, I promise. Look how long I was out of the spotlight, but I bounced back better than ever. I know that you can do that, too, but you need to take the time for yourself.”

            Ryland never knew that Demi was so good at giving advice. “I appreciate that. But how do I…” She stops, remembering her conversation with Dr. Torres the previous night. “No, I suppose I do know how. Perhaps.” She finds herself somehow ashamed to admit that it has been suggested to her to try therapy, and yet she knows that is ridiculous. After all, this is Demi. Her work on the Be Vocal campaign alone, not to mention her own experiences, should be more than enough to show that she wouldn’t think less of someone for it. “Alright. I… will talk to you about it, but I need to tell Mon Amour everything as well, and I’d rather only have to say it once, and in person. Could you come over, and I will invite her over too?”

            “Of course. Are you at home?”

            And not inclined to leave. Who knows when she’ll next be bombarded by the press if she does. She does know for a fact that the speculation will only worsen if she continues to stay away from them, but if Demi thinks it’s better to lie low for now, then she will try to follow that advice. “Yes.” Then, she takes a deep breath, and with sincerity far too open to come easily, she says, “Thank you, Demi. Truly.”

            “It’s no problem. And Ryland? We’ll get this figured out. I know we will.”

            The best Ryland can offer is a sound of rather noncommittal agreement before ending the call. Her agent is going to be the worst to call, but also important… she also probably shouldn’t just ignore the others. Still, you need to come first. …Figuratively speaking, she supposes, considering that literally speaking her first call was to Demi. She has another missed call from you already, and she’s sure that some of her voicemails are from you, but she’s also pretty sure that they’re along the lines of, ‘ _Ryland? Call me back!_ ’ But as much as she tries to push it away, she does feel guilty for making you worry, yes. She never intended for you to find out like this.

            You answer your phone the second she’s started to make the call. “Ryland?! Thank god you’re okay; why haven’t you answered my calls?”

            Hearing the worry in your voice, if not outright panic, makes the guilt sink in further. She had thought she was protecting you, and yet all she really ended up doing was hurting you and making you worry even more. “I’m sorry.” It sounds like virtually nothing in comparison to the guilt that she is feeling, but she has no idea what else to say. “I… Honestly do not know what else to say,” she admits, deciding to be honest this time. “Je suis tellement désolé, Mon Étoile. I want to explain… I need to. But I would prefer not to do so over the phone. Can you come over?”

            “Of course! I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

            “Thank you.” Openness comes a little easier with you. However, just as she’s about to try to come up with an explanation as to why Demi will also be coming, you speak again…

            “You’re welcome. I’ll see you soon, okay?” …And end the call.

            She waits briefly before coming up with an excuse and texting you. “ _Demi is also worried I would appreciate her input on this matter as well, but this is not going to be easy for me to talk about. Would you mind if she come as well?_ ” …Well, she can only hope dearly that the answer to that is no, considering that she has already told Demi she can come.

            Luckily, your reply is as Ryland hoped. “ _Understandable. Of course I don’t mind._ ”

            “ _Thanks,_ ” she texts back.

            Now she has only a very brief time to get ready. She probably looks like hell, all things considered, she figures. Nothing some makeup can’t fix, though. A glance in the mirror confirms her suspicion: she looks completely exhausted. Once she has changed out of her pajamas, put her hair up, and done her makeup, though, she looks more or less fine. She can’t deny that her composure is probably fairly meaningless given that everybody now knows full well that she isn’t as okay as she continues to insist upon pretending to be, but it’s still something that feels completely vital to her.

            It seems she finished just in time, because it’s only a few minutes after that her doorbell rings. She looks to see that Demi has arrived and lets her in.

            “Hey,” Demi greets.

            Her eyes linger for only a moment on Ryland’s bandaged cheek, but it doesn’t go without notice. She feels suddenly self-conscious. She isn’t one to run away from things, and she stands by that, but it does feel rather tempting. It isn’t as though she has any means of running away anyway, even if she were to try. She has already invited both of you over for the sole purpose of discussing what happened, and she has more phone calls she needs to make on top of it. Being able to tell the others from the tour that she has talked it over with you and Demi will hopefully make those conversations much easier. Maybe they won’t push her so much for details past her claim that she’s ‘fine now,’ which is naturally what she would claim. They will certainly know that it’s a lie, but perhaps if they also know that she’s letting the two of you help her, they will leave it up to you and let it go. Talking to her agent will be an even more difficult conversation, but at the very least, having some ideas as to what could be done should be helpful in that. “Hey.”

            Demi asks if she’s called you.

            “Yes. She’s on her way.” And will likely be there any minute as well. Which is good, because Ryland doesn’t want to begin the discussion without her, and yet the elephant in the room feels so suffocating that she can’t bring herself to speak of anything lighter.

            But of course, Demi doesn’t push. She takes a seat on the couch, although Ryland herself remains at the door. She’s incredibly tense, and she knows that Demi must be able to see it as well, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t want to admit it to anybody. Even the two of you. But after a few minutes, she knows that you’ll be there and she’ll have no choice but to start telling you what happened.

            “Ryland!” You hug her as soon as she opens the door.

            “I’m sorry for worrying you,” she murmurs into you, holding you close for a few seconds before pulling away.

            You don’t tell her that it’s alright, because it’s not. You’re not mad that she worried you, but it bothers you that she keeps hiding it from you like she did last night. You’re trying to stay patient because you know this is incredibly difficult for her, but sometimes it’s hard when all you want to do is to help her and she won’t even let you. “Just, talk to me now.”

            She nods, and as she starts toward the couch, your hand slips into hers.

            “Hey, Demi,” you greet, noticing her as you sit down next to her, in the middle of the two of them.

            “Hey, nice to see you again. …Even if I wish it were under better circumstances.”

            You nod emphatically.

            You and Demi are now quiet, and she knows she’s left with no choice but to begin speaking. You’re waiting for her. Her heart is pounding, and she prays that she won’t have another panic attack here in front of you. She suddenly finds that she can’t even look at the two of you, her gaze focused on her hands, which are in her lap, one hand still holding yours. She doesn’t think she has ever felt at such a loss for words in her life. “How much do you know, Demi?” she finally manages. She hates the awful weakness in her voice. She feels so weak all the time recently, and this is just another painful reminder.

            “I know what the media has been speculating.”

            That doesn’t really answer her question, though. She doesn’t know the extent of what the media has been speculating about her and her situation. “Right. So who knows what you’ve been told.” Deep breath. Deep breath. She’ll be fine. She holds your hand a little tighter, and you give a small squeeze in return. “Someone was stalking me for… a while.” Surely it isn’t necessary to tell her the details of that, right? She can’t see Demi’s reaction, as she keeps her eyes focused on her hands. “And a few nights ago… he broke into my house.” Somehow, with the details out, she isn’t having quite as much trouble speaking about it as she would have thought. Or maybe that’s not why. She’s feeling foggy again, or rather, perhaps detached would be a better way to describe it. “He stabbed me a few times.” _I nearly died._ “But obviously, I survived. So that is what is most important.”

            “I’m glad for that,” Demi offers.

            “Thank you.” After a moment, she clarifies, “I am, too.”

            “Me too,” you agree, still shaken by how close you came to losing her.

            Hesitant though it is, Ryland can feel a small smile tugging at her lips, appreciating the support. Truthfully, it went without saying, or you wouldn’t even be here, concerned for her well-being. It still feels nice to hear, though. It gives her the strength she needs to admit the more difficult feeling part of the story. Now has come the part where she has to explain her breakdown in front of the press. “What I have not told either of you, however… I am sorry for that, Mon Amour. But honestly, I had no idea what was going on until yesterday. After that happened, I went– No, I am probably telling this out of order.” She doesn’t know. There is no good or right way to tell this story. She stops, thinking about how best to go about it.

            Eventually she settles on something, although the details it requires her to reveal make her feel even more hesitant than she already was. “For a while now, sometimes when I thought about… the situation, it would feel hard to breathe, and… particularly frightening. I thought it was the stress of the situation and would disappear on its own. I also… after the break-in, there are times where…” How does she even describe it?

            Ryland’s grip has tightened on your hand, to the point that it’s honestly getting a little painful. You start to rub the top of her hand with your thumb, hoping to help her relax a little. Luckily, it does seem to work, at least some.

            “I just… It feels as though I am there again. Like it is still happening. And those times are brief, and not all that frequent, I suppose, but… they have been happening.”

            You give a light tug at her hand and Ryland looks up slightly, allowing you to move it. You bring her hand close to your chest. When her eyes meet yours, she sees worry and empathy shining in them.

            Her gaze drops again. “Don’t look at me like that. I lied to you, you know. Tried to hide it.”

            “And I wish you hadn’t, but… You’re telling me now, and I can’t even imagine how hard it must be to talk about.”

            “Merci.” She should have talked to you sooner, but she sees no reason to point that out now. She takes a deep breath, preparing herself to talk about what happened with the press yesterday. “Last night, they caught me off guard. Both of those things ended up happening right there on camera. I have never been so humiliated in my life.” As she speaks, she gently pulls her hand from yours, wrapping her arm loosely around her body.

            You put an arm around her, and she feels a little awkward with Demi right there, but secretly, the contact is quite reassuring. She moves closer, resting her head on your shoulder.

            Demi tells her, “We’ve all had our moments of being caught on camera at less than favorable moments. Trust me, it happens to everyone.”

            “Not like that, it doesn’t,” Ryland says softy. She doesn’t think she has ever seen news of a celebrity breaking down in front of the press like she did.

            You remind her, “Hey, I had an entire _supercut_ made of my worst moments. And I still came back from that. That was before I had hardly even made a name for myself! But I came back stronger than ever. So did Demi.”

            She knows that, and yet… No, why would she be any different? She is strong too, she tries to tell herself. She has overcome things too. So why should this stop her now? She isn’t so easily broken. “You are right. I just… do not know how I am to salvage my reputation. Particularly since I would really prefer not to share my private information publicly, non? Which both of you were forced to do.” Oh, she was in the middle of talking about something else, though. “But I should finish what I was saying. Before, I thought the difficulty breathing matter would pass on its own, but… none were as frightening as yesterday’s. And one of the places I had been stabbed was my lung, so I had valid reason for concern. I was able to meet with my doctor, and… apparently what I have been having are panic attacks and flashbacks. Nothing life-threatening, but…” Humiliating? Pathetic? That’s how she feels about it, at least.

            “Well, the good news is that that’s totally solvable,” Demi assures her. “Did your doctor give you any recommendations?”

            She hesitates before forcing the words out. “She wants me to see a therapist.”

            “Yeah, I’m sure they would be able to help. You sound uncertain, though. Talk to us?” she requests. Naturally, she sees nothing wrong with seeing a therapist.

            Ryland doesn’t want to say anything about it, but she supposes that realistically, there is little point in keeping things to herself now. The two of you already know virtually everything. “I am not terribly fond of the idea,” she decides upon. But Demi was already aware of that and wants to know why. “I am not quite sure why. …No, that is not true.” She hates this, but she has to. She despises opening up to people, and this is doing so on an extremely grand scale, at a time she feels like being more private than ever. She feels frustrated with how difficult this is for her. It is rare that her typically high degree of composure is anything but good, but this is not the first time her near inability to open up has caused problems with you. Of course, she knows with certainty that the fact that she is struggling isn’t revealed in her expression, because that’s just who she is. Even so, you both know that this doesn’t come easily to her, so she hopes you understand.

            The urge to look away is strong, but Ryland forces herself to look up and act as strong as possible. When she manages to force the words out, they feel distant, perhaps as though due to her disbelief that she is actually saying them. “This entire time, I have been the victim. I want to do things on my own, because I should be strong enough to. I have always been strong. But recently, I have been feeling…” She finds herself stuck when it comes to actually admitting this, but it’s too late to find a way to avoid it. Still, she can’t bring herself to look at you as she speaks the words. “…rather pathetic. That is why I do not want to be in need of anyone else’s help.”

            “A lot of people feel that way,” Demi says, “but trust me, there’s nothing pathetic about seeking help when you need it! It’s hard, I know… so there’s actually a lot of strength in that. And everyone, no matter how strong, needs others sometimes.”

            She knows that is true. And coming from Demi, who is undeniably one of the strongest people she knows… it is impossible to discount those words. “And no matter what, it is better than doing nothing and having these things continue happening,” she sighs. “Yes. Alright, I will schedule an appointment.”

            “I’m glad – I think it’ll really help.”

            She looks back up at the two of you as she admits, “The next phone call I have to make, however, is to my agent. I have no idea what to tell her… My reputation is probably in the garbage now.”

            You tell her, “Hey, as strict as she is, Kate was really understanding when I had my… PR issues. And those were something I totally could have prevented if I had been more, well… aware of my words and whatnot. I’m sure your agent won’t hold something like this against you.”

            ‘Something like this,’ Ryland supposes, means something that is so completely out of her control. Which is, of course, one of the worst things about it. But for that reason, she supposes you have a valid point: her agent has no place to scold her for something like this, which she truly cannot help. Awful as that is to acknowledge.

            “Well, and you can come to the conversation with some strategies already,” Demi points out. “Like I think it would be best to take some time off and focus on your own recovery, then being able to make a comeback. It’s then that your fans will see how strong you really are – because you absolutely are. Maybe, when you’re feeling up to it, you could start working on another album to release at that point, too.”

            Like _Unbroken_ , Ryland guesses. The only problem is that that would require her to emotionally put herself out there quite a bit, and she feels extremely uncomfortable to do so. “All of my albums thus far have been about love, and otherwise just light subjects…”

            “That’s true. So were mine, usually. I get it – it’s not easy. At all. But you can do this, Ryland. I know you can.”

            The problem is, she isn’t completely sure that she wants to. But no, she has to. She doesn’t want to open up, absolutely not, but if it’s the only way she can salvage her career… it goes without saying that she will do just about anything necessary for that. …She really feels lucky to have you two as the people she is closest to. Especially right now. She sits up, smiling. “You are right. Thank you, both of you.”

            Demi shakes her head. “Trust me, I’ve been there before! I’m just glad I can be of some help. Let me know how talking to your agent goes, okay?”

            “Sure.”

            The trouble expression you’ve been wearing throughout the visit, which seemed to only become increasingly concerned as the conversation continued, is finally beginning to clear. “And you know I’m always here for you, Ryland.”

            “I know.” _I am sorry I was not honest with you,_ she wants to say, but it has already been said.

            “I should go and let you make those calls,” Demi says, standing. “But remember I’m always a phone call away, alright?”

            Ryland smiles, standing to walk her to the door. “I will keep that in mind,” she tells Demi, but she does mean it this time.

            “Okay.” At the door, she pauses as Ryland opens it. “Stay strong, Ryland.”

            “I will.” Demi gives her a brief hug before leaving, at which point she returns to your side. “One difficult conversation down, five to go,” she comments. You look at her in confusion and she clarifies, “Several of the others from the Europe tour called as well. And then there is my agent, and scheduling that appointment.” She puts her hands on her hips, determined as she tells you, “But it will be fine. I can do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: references to previous chapter's alcohol abuse, nausea, dissociation, discussion of panic attacks and flashbacks


	10. A Blade Stuck in the Left Side of My Chest

            _“Tomorrow’s the day you give your testimony, right?” her therapist asks._

_“Mmhmm.”_

_“How are you feeling about it?”_

_Ryland hesitates, giving it sincere thought. She hasn’t had a flashback in days, and the panic attacks have become less frequent. Most of all, she is strong. She can do this. “I am not worried. I should not have any problem with it. And, as I mentioned, I will not have to do it alone.”_

_“Not worried at all?”_

_The therapist is skeptical, which Ryland can hardly blame her for. Considering how much distress she was in mere weeks ago, she knows it seems unlikely. Or unlikely for others, perhaps. She prides herself on being braver than that, as she insists herself to be different. She smiles as she confirms, “Not at all.”_

            …And that is what she said. And what she truly thought to be the case, until you all got there to the courthouse and… _mon dieu_ , it’s hard to breathe… Deep breaths… It will be fine…

            You reach for her hand, offering an encouraging smile that’s too tinged with concern to be truly effective. Ryland feels that her hands are clammy, though, so she pulls her hand away before you could notice. Misunderstanding, you feel hurt, wondering why she is pushing you away. She can see that you’ve gotten the wrong idea, but she doesn’t want to admit to you that her hands would feel disgusting or how terrified she suddenly feels.

            “Nervous?” Demi asks, apparently picking up on it. Ryland is good at not allowing it to be picked up upon, as always, but the one thing she can’t disguise is her breathing. For someone who knows what to look for, it’s an indicator.

            Nervous doesn’t even begin to cover it. She feels terrified, like her heart may leap from her throat. “Somewhat,” she concedes. Honest but nothing she feels too terribly uncomfortable with admitting at this point. She has gotten at least a little more used to talking about things, even if not by all that much.

            “This is basically just a formality,” you assure her. “I mean, they’ve got the guy’s fingerprints on the– you know, stuff he left you. There’s no way they’re not going to find him guilty.”

            Your best friend nods in agreement as well.

            “I know,” Ryland tells you. But what if they offer him bail and he chooses that? What if they do something other than put him in prison? What if she sees him and has another flashback or panic track? She’s only been able to meet with her therapist three times, after all? What if the court doesn’t consider him guilty ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ and he walks free?

            “Oh!” Your sudden exclamation startles Ryland, and you quickly apologize. “Sorry, I just almost forgot…” You reach into her bag, and after a moment of rummaging around, are able to find what you’re looking for. You pull it from your bag, revealing…

            “An apple.” A shining red apple. Ryland’s heart melts. It seems small, but it means the world to her.

            “I got the shiniest one I could find,” you tell her.

            She’s sure that Demi and your best friend are a tad confused by this conversation, as they don’t know her story. Logically so, given that the only one she has ever shared such a personal story with was you. (And that terrible writer, but both of you prefer to pretend that person was entirely absent from the conversation.) She hugs you, giving you a kiss on the cheek before accepting the apple and biting into it. Due to nerves, she neglected to eat breakfast that morning, but your support is enough that she’s starting to feel better now.

            “Well then. Shall we go in?” Entering means not being able to discuss it until after the trial, and having to be aware of everything you say and do, due to the small possibility of someone from the jury being nearby. Or at least, that is what the lawyer told all of you.

            “Ready?” you confirm.

            As she ever will be. “Of course.” As usual, she tries her best to pretend as though she’s not at all bothered. At least she’s feeling marginally better now, but it’s not by as much as she would like and she doesn’t know if it will stay that way.

            You walk through the metal detectors, then are stopped for your bags to be searched. Considering how much you all know the press would _love_ to be there photographing everyone’s every move, it’s a relief that there has been a ban on cameras and other recording devices by the public. Once that is done, the four of you go inside, taking seats at benches. Your best friend and Demi are just there for moral support, while you and Ryland are witnesses. So while the two of them could go in as audience members, you two are forced to wait outside the courtroom until called in to give testimony, and they’re waiting with you.

            …And _wait_ is, for who knew how long, all you’re able to do. Ryland is the second witness and you’re the fourth, as testimony is also being given by the police and Dr. Torres. There are more after you, including the “defendant” himself. You’ve all really come to hate that word, as it seems like it allows for doubt. His fingerprints were on the boxes. His handwriting is a match for the creepy notes. His fingerprints are on a gun that was in his house that has bullets matching those fired at your apartment building. There’s a mountain of evidence against him, and Ryland has been trying to reassure herself with that knowledge. She feels uneasy, but with the amount of evidence there is, there isn’t anyone who could look at that and still judge him innocent, is there?

            But Ryland doesn’t know. The defense attorney could very well have something up his sleeve. Most frustratingly to her, she isn’t allowed to know the details of the trial except as prior received from the police, or that’s relevant to her own testimony. You’ve shared with her what little you know as well, as she has shared with you, but it still feels like too little. Apparently in a trial like this, where the defendant is being tried for a major offense like attempted murder, Ryland is merely considered another witness instead of the plaintiff, which means that the amount of knowledge they’re able to share with her. She finds it infuriating and asinine, which is exactly the same way she feels about the system having to pretend there is any way he could be anything but guilty. The worst part about in her eyes is that what she knows about the situation could be downright irrelevant. All that matters is that a random group of people basically pulled off the street agree _unanimously_ upon his guilt.

            No one can find any words. The silence hangs heavily over you, but none of you are able to break it. It’s particularly bad because the topic weighing on everybody’s mind is also one that you have all been banned from discussing in the courthouse.

            Still, Ryland is able to convince herself that everything will be fine… until the minute she actually hears,

            “Ryland Lumière?”

            She automatically stands, then looks back at you, suddenly feeling a rise of panic in her chest at the realization that this time, she will have no choice but to face him.

            “It’ll be okay,” you tell her, reaching for her hand and giving it a small squeeze before releasing it. “I’ll see you soon. You’ll do great.”

            She appreciates your reassurances, but they just don’t feel true right now. She can feel her hands trembling. What if she doesn’t ‘do great’? What if she doesn’t do a good enough job of retelling what happened, and it leaves the testimony open to him worming his way out? What if—

            Demi puts her hands on Ryland’s shoulders, regretting it when she feels her entire body go tense and her eyes fill with fear. She moves her hands away, clearly recognizing it to have been a bad idea. “Ryland. Deep breaths, okay?” she asks softly. “It’s going to be alright. I’m going in, too, and I’ll be supporting you from the audience.”

            Right along with the press who she knows would just love another chance to humiliate her if she gets too emotional in front of them again. She nods, trying to slow her breathing. She hadn’t even realized how much it had sped until Demi brought her attention to it.

            She looks into Ryland’s eyes. “Stay strong, Ryland. You can do this.”

            Ryland nods, although she’s truthfully not all that convinced, and heads toward the person who called her name as Demi goes into the courtroom through a different door. She can still feel the fear in her veins, but she does her best to put on a brave face.

            She enters, looking around the room while trying to do so only in a way that doesn’t cause her to look as terrified as she feels. She is led to a stand with a microphone on it. On one side of her is a bench with the prosecutor she spoke to. On the other bench sits the defense and her attacker. She looks at him and something in her seems to _freeze_. He looks like a normal person here, and her stomach sinks, because they must see that, and—

             Her thoughts are interrupted as she is told to raise her hand to say the oath. Luckily, the prosecutor has spoken with her about this. While it’s common knowledge for Americans, appearing in _les tribunaux_ is different from appearing in American courtrooms, and she’s never had reason to appear in _le tribunal_ anyway. Not to mention that the legal system is different in some ways, which meant Ryland needed a lot more education on courtroom procedures than you did. She just tries to remember that she’s lucky that the case’s prosecutor was willing to speak with her about it.

            “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

            “I do.” She speaks into the microphone, but looks into it in confusion as there is no echo. She knows how her voice sounds in a microphone, and that isn’t it.

            “The microphone is for recording purposes for the court record,” she’s informed due to the look she’s giving it.

            “I see.” In other words, she must be sure to speak up. And she has already been instructed that she _must_ speak solely in English, lest they think she is trying to hide something or communicate secretly with someone. Even speaking is starting to seem like it may end up a challenge.

            She puts her hand down as the prosecutor addresses her. “Would you please state your full name for the court?”

            “Ryland Adrienne Cécile Marie Lumière.” With the differences in traditional French versus typical American structures for ‘full names,’ she wonders if it sounds strange to people’s ears. It certainly feels odd to say, since in France she would almost never have reason to provide the entire thing, but it seems better to provide the entirety.

            “Would you please spell your name?”

            …If they want to be there a while, she muses. It’s typical procedure though, she supposes. “Ryland – R-Y-L-A-N-D. Adrienne – A-D-R-I-E-N-N-E. Cécile – C…” She trails off, uncertain how to communicate the accent to them. In the end, she settles upon drawing its angle in the air with a finger as she says, “E with an _accent aigu_ -C-I-L-E. Marie – M-A-R-I-E. Lumière – L-U-M-I…” She draws the shape of the accent again. “E with an _accent grave_ -R-E.” She speaks slowly, both trying to calm herself and to give the transcriber enough time to write the letters down. She realizes that the accents make it a bit more difficult, but she can hardly help her name being what it is.

            “When were you born?”

            “May 1, 1991.”

            “Where did you obtain your first schooling?”

            “Paris, France.” So far, it seems to be going alright. Simple information. She knows it’s probably just for introductory purposes, but she’s glad they’re not jumping right into the stalking.

            “When did you begin studying English?”

            “As a baby. I was raised somewhat bilingual.” She recognizes that ‘somewhat’ sounds like a bit of an odd statement, but the truth is much more complicated than that, and she was told not to include unnecessary information. She guesses that the real purpose behind the question is just to ensure that she’s fluent, so her answer should be good enough.

            “What is your native language?”

            “French.”

            “What is your highest degree of education?”

            “I graduated high school.” Anything more was not only something she couldn’t afford, but was also something entirely unnecessary to become a singer.

            “And after that?”

            “For a while, I worked. Just your average job – in the kitchen of a seafood restaurant. Eventually, I was able to follow my passions and become a singer, which is where I am today. And where I intend to remain.” She speaks with determination, knowing full well that the press is there and taking notes.

            “Do you know why you were called here?”

            How could she not? She holds back the snarky response, however, knowing she needs to refrain from saying anything that could be considered rude, both in response to the ridiculously obvious question and when speaking of the ‘defendant.’ She has to keep her answer relatively neutral, because anything else could jeopardize her case. “Yes. I was threatened, stalked, and attacked, and am here to testify about what happened.”

            “When you say you were ‘threatened,’ what threatening words or actions were received?”

            She tries her hardest not to let her discomfort show, but she knows that, for once, she isn’t able to completely hide it. “It began with… unsettling love letters. Violent. Possessive. Then came unsettling drawings of me in… compromising positions, oftentimes bleeding or deceased.” Her hands clench into fists as she tries to keep herself grounded, and she keeps her eyes focused steadily upon the jury as she was instructed to by the prosecutor. “I also received letters that were blatant death threats, toward myself or my girlfriend, if I continued seeing her.” She doesn’t even know how to refer to the boxes. She isn’t sure if they count under the category of threats or if they’re something else entirely.

            “Is that all?”

            “Objection, Your Honor, leading,” the defense speaks up, prompting Ryland to look at him and see her assailant next to him.

            “Objection overruled,” the judge says. “The witness will answer.”

            Her gaze feels frozen, locked onto the man she has seen in flashbacks and nightmares ever since the incident, and who terrorized her even before that. With difficulty, she forces herself to look away, back to the jury. She tries her hardest to slow her breathing, as she was distracted to the point of not noticing it picking up again. “He left boxes on my doorstep. Twice.” She’s fighting to keep her gaze on the jury still. She’s fighting to keep her breaths even and paced. “The first time, I had just come from spending the night at my girlfriend’s. I returned to find a box on my porch. It had a note on it – ‘I told you to stop seeing her’ – and wh-when I opened it…”

            _Stay strong, Ryland_. She echoes Demi’s words in her head. Up on the witness stand and all alone, she needs something to hold onto, because she can picture the box all too clearly and that does not bode well for the fact that the things she will have to retell will only get more difficult from here. “It was full of dead mice. A live one jumped out of the box.” There is a small tremble to her breath, and she can’t bring her gaze up from the floor. “About a week later, I received another box. No note this time. Just a… dead cat. It had clearly received a violent death. Its nametag read the name of my girlfriend.” A shudder runs through her body.

            “And what led you to believe that you were being stalked?”

            “The things he sent. Especially since he always seemed to know when I saw or spoke to my girlfriend.”

            The lawyer turns away from her, toward the jury. “We have already confirmed the evidence in our last testimony,” he says.

            That would have been the police testimony, she recognizes. For which, due to the pornographic evidence materials, she was assured that the court would be closed to outsiders such as the press. As much as she is glad for that, she just wishes the entire trial could have been that way, because she really doesn’t look forward to the press knowing every detail. Unfortunately, there’s no way around it, so all she can do is to try to avoid thinking about their presence.

            The lawyer turns his attention back to her. “And when did you contact the police?”

            “I first tried after I had received some of the aforementioned letters and drawings. Unfortunately, having disposed of them, I had no evidence. But when I went home… that had been the day after I stayed at my girlfriend’s, as she was the one who convinced me that the problem was not going to simply go away. After that, I began giving all of the things I received to the police.”

            “Where were you the night before the alleged assault?”

            _Alleged?_ The word irritates her to no end. She keeps her poker face up, but she can’t help feeling completely exasperated that the court is forced to entertain any sort of notion that her stalker did nothing wrong. “I stayed at the apartment of a friend, Dante DiMarco. My girlfriend and her best friend’s apartment was attacked with gunfire, and they thought it safer to stay at the apartment of someone who had yet to be attacked, and safer for all of us to be together.”

            “And the next morning, what brought you back to your apartment?”

            “My girlfriend and her best friend were called in for police questioning, and Dante had business to attend to with his band. With the police having increased patrols around my home and Dante’s apartment being otherwise empty, I thought that it would be about equally safe for me to make a quick trip back home. I had not realized I would be staying the night, so I had not brought necessities such as changes of clothing. I intended to pick up such things and return to Dante’s.”

            “When you arrived at your house, did you see anything unusual?”

            “No.”

            “What did you do, when you arrived?”

            “I ate breakfast, having neglected to do so earlier. I then went to my room to gather my things.”

            “And what alerted you to the break-in?”

            “I heard a sound. Like a shattering of glass.” _Non, non…_ Her heart is beginning to race at the memory. She has to stay calm!

            “What did you do then?”

            “I had briefly had the television on while eating, so I hoped that perhaps I had simply neglected to turn it off.” It is fine, she tries desperately to convince herself. It is fine. It is in the past now.

            “And what happened next?”

            She freezes. Her blood runs cold, and she suddenly finds herself unable to speak, staring helplessly down at the witness stand. With a stiff hand, she touches one of her shoulders. It’s the only thing she can think of to do to communicate.

            Somebody calls her name. They sound an ocean away. She can’t breathe.

            Her lungs are going to burst. They’re trapped, full of needles.

            Her hands ball into fists. She can feel their trembling.

            She feels unsteady, as though she could fall. Is she going to faint? She reaches out, gripping part of the stand for balance.

            She fights to keep herself upright. She wants to hide, but there is nowhere for her to go, and there are eyes on her, and the press is there, and _he_ is there, and she’s making a fool out of herself, and her career is going to be over after this, and she looks ridiculous, and they will never believe her now—

            “Ryland?” Her name again. Closer this time. “Ryland, breathe.”

            She wants to object. To say that she can’t. She can’t even find the words.

            “Ryland? Can you look at me?”

            She manages to tear her gaze away from the stand, then sees Demi standing next to her. She looks around the courtroom and sees that some people have left their seats. What happened? How long was she…?

            “It’s okay. They called a recess so you’d have some time to recover.”

            “Oh.” Humiliation burns her face. She averts her eyes.

            “C’mon, why don’t we go get some air?”

            She tells Demi that she doesn’t want you to see her like this. It will be all over the papers before long that it happened, but she’s tired of you seeing her weak all the time.

            “I understand, but we can’t talk much here.” She offers Ryland a hand.

            Ryland hesitates, then accepts. She allows herself to be led out, looking away so that she doesn’t see you as the two of them head outside.

            They stop a few feet away from the entrance. Releasing Demi’s hand, Ryland touches her chest, still feeling as though she is suffocating.

            “It’s alright. It’ll pass,” Demi reminds her.

            She tries to focus on that. It certainly didn’t feel that way earlier, but luckily, Demi has provided her with enough distraction that she is able to remember the things she discussed with her therapist. She tries to slow her breaths, though they come out uneven and far too quickly for quite a while.

            Demi waits patiently for her to calm down enough to talk about it. When Ryland’s breathing is finally at a more bearable pace, she says, “It’s gotta be hard to remember that, huh?”

            “You have no idea.” She slumps against the wall. “I practiced the testimony, but… Demi, he is _there_. Staring at me. As is the press.”

            She reaches out to hug her, and Ryland allows her to do so.

            “I just wish I was stronger,” she murmurs, knowing that only Demi will be able to hear her.

            “You are extremely strong, Ryland.” She pulls away, looking at her. “Just being able to face him like this – that’s amazing.”

            “I hardly have a choice.”

            “No, but you’re still doing it. And you know what, you’re doing really well. Yeah, you got overwhelmed just now, but up until that point?”

            Ryland tries to smile, but she’s not really feeling it. She does appreciate Demi’s support, but ‘doing really well’? Even if that was true, which she doesn’t think is the case, she just flushed all of that down the drain. “But what if I am not able to continue with the testimony, or with cross-examination? What if that happens again?”

            “Then people will understand. Ryland, something really traumatic happened to you. He’s being tried for stalking, assault, and _attempted murder_ , remember? Nobody could possibly blame you for having trouble talking about being attacked and nearly killed.”

            “Perhaps you are right. Merci, Demi.”

            “No problem. Stay strong, okay? You’ll be alright.” She pauses. “Hey, would it help to pretend you’re still just rehearsing? Or retelling it to one of us?”

            To pretend that it’s you listening, and that she’s safe…? “Perhaps that would help.” She rubs an arm, sighing. She really does feel ridiculous. As though she ought to simply put her reactions in the past, as the event is. Everyone else has assured her that of course it isn’t that simple, but right now she’s more worried about the fact that the press would likely be more in agreement with her, and that whatever the press says is likely to become the public opinion.

            “I suppose Mon Amour is worrying,” Ryland comments, changing the subject. “I ought to let her know that I am alright.” …Mostly alright, at least. Probably. She does feel that she is for now, but the question is whether that will remain the case once she goes back into the courtroom and has to continue her testimony. She wonders if it’s possible to have gotten it out of her system. That would be rather nice.

            “Are you?”

            “For the time being, at least.”

            “Okay.”

            They head back inside. Sure enough, your eyes have been glued to the door, and you hurry over to her. “Ryland! Are you okay? What happened?”

            “I’m fine.” She rests a hand on your arm. “I had a brief…” _panic attack_ “…hiccup when it came to speaking of the day of the break-in, and they called a recess to allow me some time to pull myself together.” It feels utterly humiliating for her to admit that that was necessary. That she was unable to handle it and had to step out. She feels ridiculous, and she knows she’s going to feel even worse facing the court again.

            “How are you feeling now?”

            It’s all too tempting to lie and say that she feels completely fine, but she has been trying lately to let you in a little more. It isn’t fun. In fact, it’s downright humiliating. She isn’t even sure that she feels that talking about it actually helps, because it’s so difficult and humiliating to do. And yet, you value that honesty and her being open with you about things, so she is making efforts. “Humiliated. I am sure that the press will have plenty to say about it, too. And although it seems to have passed for now, I do not know the degree of risk I face of it happening again.” She sighs.

            “But after this trial, he’ll be behind bars. And maybe then it’ll help you feel safe again,” you offer.

            She certainly appreciates the sentiment, but truthfully, she doesn’t feel very convinced that it will truly be so simple. It would be nice if it were, of course. “Perhaps. That would be quite a relief. But remember, we are not supposed to discuss that here…”

            “Oops. Sorry.”

            She finds it completely ridiculous. But she doesn’t want to do anything that could jeopardize the chances of him receiving the rightful verdict, so she’ll go along with it anyway.

            “We have to head back in,” Demi says, gesturing to the people heading back into the courtroom.

            She would have liked to have more time to talk with you, but it can’t be helped. Besides, being unable to talk about the matter at hand renders it somewhat pointless.

            “You can do this,” you reassure her, giving her a quick but tight embrace.

            She smiles, but isn’t able to muster a confident response without feeling as though she’s completely lying. Instead, she just heads to the courtroom.

            Demi walks her to the door, though the entrance for audience members is down the hall, then pauses. “She’s right. I know it won’t be easy, but you’ll get through this.”

            All she can do is force another awkward smile, then enter the courtroom.

            “Witness, are you feeling better?” the prosecutor asks her once everybody is assembled again.

            “Yes. My apologies. It is… rather difficult to speak of. But I am fine now.”

            “Very well then,” the judge says. “Let us continue with the direct examination.”

            The prosecutor nods before giving a brief recap. “So we have established that you heard the sound of glass breaking, then went to check if you had left the television on. What did you do next?”

            “I panicked,” she has no choice but to admit. It’s difficult to explain this part, as she feels it’s extremely illogical that instead of trying to hide or locate something that she could use to defend herself, her only thought was to try to get her phone. “I turned to go back into my room so I could get my phone and call the police.”

            “Were you able to call the police?” he asks, although he already knows the answer, leaving her to wonder why he’s even bothering to ask. Courtroom politics, she supposes, and as part of the royal family, she can certainly understand the lack of logic that sometimes accompanied such things.

            “No.”

            “Why not?”

            Deep breath. In. Out. She clenches and unclenches her hands. “I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I was pushed to the ground. I attempted to escape, and that was when he stabbed me in the leg.”

            “What did you do next?”

            “He straddled me, and I continued attempting to get away until he put his knife to my throat and told me to stop moving.”

            “And after he held the knife to your throat, what did you do?”

            “I tried to plead with him. I knew that if I continued trying to escape him, he would use his knife again.”

            “How did he respond to your pleading?”

            “He told me to stop crying and cut my cheek.” A hand reaches up, self-consciously covering the scar. She’s been covering it with makeup, but as much as she hates it and that the press can see it, she thought it best that the jury be able to see it clearly.

            “After he cut your cheek, what did you do?”

            Her hand lowers, and there is a small tremble to her inhale. She pauses, taking deep breaths. Better to cause a small delay than to have a repeat of earlier. “I did not dare cry. Or move. Or do anything. At that point, all I could do was silently plead that I would make it out of there alive.”

            “What happened next?”

            Deep breaths. She tries counting them as a breathing exercise, but her chest has already become so tight that she can’t even make it up to a count of five. She persists in her effort at slowing her breathing, however, as she has practiced with her therapist. _Respire-2-3-4-5, expire-2-3-4-5. Respire-2-3-4-5-6-7, expire-2-3-4-5-6-7._ It takes a long time for her to even make it up to a count of seven, and she realizes that she has gone silent again without explanation. “Give me a minute. I’m sorry.” She feels embarrassed about having to request that, but she continues to focus on her breathing until she can make it to twelve. It isn’t the best she can do by any means, as a singer, but it’s enough that she feels like she’s at least getting enough air. Finally, she manages, “He touched me.”

            “I’m sorry,” the prosecutor says, and she can tell he’s sincere, “but I need you to elaborate. Where did he touch you?”

            She wants to picture speaking to somebody else, but the truth is, she hasn’t told this part to anyone except the lawyer. She just hasn’t been able to find the words. To tell you that she can’t even wash her own body without feeling queasy, let alone consider being physically intimate with her again yet, because of what he did to her.

            She does her best to block it out of her memory, allowing her hands to clench into such tight fists that she can feel the sting of nails biting into her palms. It occurs to her then that this will be how Demi is going to find out. And worse, the press is going to find out, too. Given how little they value celebrities’ privacy, there is no doubt in her mind that the entire world is about to know. That even her most loyal fans are going to hear about it from celebrity gossip shows, news reports, magazines, or gossip websites. And that she’s going to have to tell you as soon as possible so that you hear it from her and not them. “My breasts, over my top. Then my abdomen, and then… up my skirt. Between my legs.” She’s looking at the floor again, and she can hear a tremble in her voice.

            “And after he molested you, what did he do?”

            “He stopped and told me he… ‘wanted to save one of the best parts for last.’ He then began to speak of how he would kill me.” Her eyes are on the ground. She’s beginning to feel distant from herself again. “Ways in which he could leave me as a ‘beautiful corpse,’ apparently.”

            “How did you react to that?”

            She wonders if her dignity can be trashed any worse than it’s about to be. Honestly, she really and truly thinks that the answer may be no. “I was disgusted and terrified. …I was ill, and started to cry again. He dragged me to a different part of the room, and when I was not able to cease my tears, he stabbed me again, in my abdomen.”

            “What happened after he stabbed you in the abdomen?”

            “There was a lot of blood. He threatened to kill me if I did not stop crying, as he said it was ‘annoying.’ But shortly after, police sirens…” The statement sounds odd to her ears. Not only is she feeling distant, but her memory of that point is foggy to begin with due to the blood loss. “We heard police sirens. Things were becoming slightly hazy for me. He cursed and stabbed my chest.” She brings a hand up, silently indicating where it was. “The police came and arrested him.”

            “After he was arrested by the police, what happened next?”

            “One of the officers came over and called an ambulance. I think he tried to stop the bleeding. I think the ambulance came shortly after that…?” She puts a hand to her forehead, trying to remember. “I was unable to remain conscious for much longer.”

            “When did you next wake?”

            At least that memory isn’t quite as unpleasant. “I had been through surgery already and had stitches in all of the places I was injured. I was in a hospital room, and my girlfriend was there, waiting for me to wake. I do not know how long it was in terms of hours.”

            “And had you ever seen the culprit before the day of the break-in?”

            “No.”

            “No further questions,” the lawyer says, looking to the judge.

            “And next is cross-examination.” Ryland’s eyes go to the man who spoke… the defense attorney, whose job it is to try to allow her assailant to walk free, or at the very least with less severe punishment than she feels is warranted.

            She takes a deep breath and mentally prepares for it as best she can. She has heard that this is more difficult than direct examination, and she’s already had enough difficulty as it is. But she managed to get through it, so… perhaps the cross-examination will not be as bad as it was made out to be. She hopes so, at least. All she can do is wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussion of everything that happened over the course of the stalking, panic attacks, dissociation


	11. Feel Like You're Drowning

            “You have said that you are a singer,” the lawyer cross-examining her begins. She wonders where he’s going with that, but she doesn’t have to wonder for long: “But particularly with being on stage and in front of the press… Could it be said that you are good at acting?”

            _Merde_. “Yes.” She speaks cautiously. There isn’t anything inherently wrong with being a good actress, of course, but she knows that he must be planning to frame it in a way that makes her look like a liar.

            “Have you ever intentionally deceived the public?”

            And of course, she has already been informed that when asked a yes or no question during cross-examination, she is only permitted a yes or no answer. Trying to explain herself will only hurt her case… even if this is also going to make her look bad. “Yes.”

            He just nods in response, and she takes deep breaths to try to keep herself from becoming frustrated with the way she’s being portrayed. She desperately hopes that the jury wouldn’t be convinced that she would lie about something as serious as this.

            After allowing her answer to sink in a while, he continues his line of questioning. “Could it be said that you have lied to protect your reputation in the past?”

            “Yes.” She very much does not like where he could be going with that. She hates the implications of how that question could be relevant, and the smug look on his face makes it even worse. She doesn’t dare look at the jury for fear that they will misinterpret her nerves as meaning that he has revealed something particularly pertinent to the case that reveals a lie of some sort.

            “You claim that he was threatening both you and your girlfriend, correct?”

            “Yes.” Her blood boils at the word ‘claim.’ She doesn’t just _claim_ it happened; it _did_ happen. Still, she keeps it to herself, knowing that allowing her agitation to show won’t do her any good.

            “And you claim you felt threatened and afraid due to this?”

            _Of course I did!_ she wants to yell, but she continues to force it back. “Yes.”

            “But could it be said that you continued to see her anyway?”

            It’s then that she realizes he’s trying to make it sound as though she is lying about the fear the stalker put her through. The worst part is that the answer isn’t even quite ‘yes,’ because she _tried_ to avoid seeing you. She tried to protect you. But you didn’t allow her that option, because you were concerned and trying to do what you thought was best. As a result, between yes and no, she knows that the closest answer is, “Yes.”

            She hates the way he gives such long pauses when he has concluded a point, emphasizing it and leading the jury to think it over ore deeply. She would really just like to get these awful questions over with. “I must also add… You testified that the box of mice…” She cringes at those words, but he ignores her, “…was left on your doorstep the same day the police turned you down due to lack of evidence, correct?”

            “Yes.”

            “Were you an outsider, would you say that that sounds like a bit of a funny coincidence?”

            Perhaps, but she isn’t an outsider, and so she knows that the two are not directly related. They’re both because of her spending the night with you. Your convincing her to go to the police and, unaware of that, the stalker showing his upset at her for staying with you. “Yes.”

            “You have also said that you became confused and your memory foggy around the time that police arrived at the scene of the alleged break-in.”

            _Alleged?!_ “Yes.” Due to nearly fatal blood loss, yes!

            “Is it possible that that could have influenced your recollection of other things you testified to having happened at that time?”

            She doesn’t know if it’s possible, but she does know that that isn’t the case. However, he didn’t ask whether it happened or didn’t happen, or whether she thought it did or didn’t. All he asked was whether she thought it would be in any way possible. And the unfortunate answer to that was, “I do not know.”

            “And lastly… You claim to never have seen the defendant until, allegedly, the break-in, right?”

            “Yes.” At last, something that’s actually indicative of the truth. She knows that to leave it there would be too good to be true, though. After all, this is the _enculé_ trying to defend her assailant…

            “But have you ever had relations with a person and not particularly remembered them after?”

            Is he serious? Is he really trying to put that sort of spin on this? Her hands shake with frustration. Sure, there are women she previously had one-night ‘relations’ with and probably wouldn’t remember their faces a few days later, yes. But that was different on so many levels! “Yes, but—!”

            “No further questions, Your Honor.”

            Rage is boiling within her. She breathes slowly, attempting to calm herself in light of it ending _there_ and being given no chance to explain herself. That bastard has been ruining her life and she can’t bear the thought of him walking free.

            “Beginning re-direct examination,” the prosecutor says.

            Her relief is palpable. Cross-examination was an absolute disaster, but she had forgotten that this lawyer was allowed to help her fight back. Even if the defense attorney could then cross-examine her again, at least this should help save her.

            “You said that you have lied to the press in the past, but is this something that has happened recently?”

            “No.” She doesn’t know how much difference that will really make to the jury, but it’s true that she has been pretty honest with the press since she started working with you and Demi on the matter. She does worry that it’s too late to change their minds about the dishonest person the defense painted her as, but all she can do is be honest and hope that they will see the truth.

            “And although you did see your girlfriend despite the threats, why was it that you did so?”

            It’s a little more complicated to explain, but she’s extremely glad he’s giving her the opportunity to do so. “I avoided her at first, but she caught on and of course began to wonder why. I needed to explain the situation, and it seemed information that really ought to be delivered in person rather than over the phone, particularly with her being in danger as well. After that, we agreed not to see each other, but remained in touch over the phone until the… other box was put on my step. At that point I panicked, and I ignored her calls for a while. Unfortunately, she became so worried that she came over to check on me in person. And then when I stayed at her friend’s place… She had called me, panicked, and asked me to go there immediately, with no explanation. Of course I did. Yes, seeing her seemed slightly ill-advised, but what was I supposed to do?”

            “And do you think that there is any possibility you could have ever known the defendant before the alleged break-in?”

            “Absolutely not. I only know a handful of people in the US, and I have been in a committed relationship the entire time. Further, while I may have had relations with people I later did not remember upon occasion, those people were all women.” And, of course, it goes without saying that the culprit is not a woman; that was already established.

            He pauses, thinking a few seconds before saying, “No further questions.”

            All eyes turn to the defense attorney, and she starts to worry a little that he may subject her to another round of interrogation. He thinks a while as well. “The State rests, Your Honor.”

            She slowly releases a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. No further questions from either of them, then. Her clammy hands finally unclench from the fists they had been balled into as she is finally told to leave the room.

            Demi meets her right outside the door. “You did it!” she congratulates. Ryland can only smile weakly in response, not feeling all that proud of herself. All she did was tell the truth, and yet she still made a fool of herself and may not have even looked all that credible anyway.

            When she sees you, though, she finally starts to feel relieved as it sinks in that her part in it is over. You see her smile become a little more genuine and feel relieved as well, having spent the entirety of her testimony worrying about her from the waiting area. “How did it go?”

            “Without further incident,” she tells you, though feeling a bit uncertain. It went about as well as it could have in terms of her emotional state, once she recovered from earlier, but she’s still worried about how the defense attorney might be attempting to represent her and who the jury will believe. She doesn’t want you to have to know that, though. Especially not when you’re still going to have to testify later.

            “I’m so glad to hear that.” You reach out to hug her, and she reciprocates gladly.

            A guard walks past, looking for the next witness. When the two of you separate, Ryland sits down next to you and your best friend. She wants to stay until you’re all notified of whether to expect to hear the decision today or at some point in the future. Of course, even if that were not the case, she would stay because you have to stay until you’re called as a witness anyway.

            Ryland notices a stack of magazines on the small table nearby and quirks an eyebrow at you, curious. You gesture at your best friend. “She thought they’d be a good idea to help pass the time.”

            All about fashion, relationships/sex, and cooking, she notes. She’s rather grateful for the lack of celebrity gossip magazines though. Eventually she will have to face the speculations, but right now the trial is still in progress and a verdict hasn’t even been reached, so she decides that she would rather wait until much later. She does hate to leave her fans in the dark, but it has already been decided that it’s better not to say anything for now than to risk saying the wrong thing while she’s still in the process of picking up the pieces. It might hurt her image, but not as much the latter would. Or at least, that’s what Demi says, and particularly with her agent and manager in agreement, Ryland is inclined to follow that advice.

            Not allowed to talk about the case and with it weighing too much on her mind to come up with anything else to talk about, Ryland asks, “Could I have a magazine?”

            “Of course!” your best friend replies. “Fashion, Cosmo, or food?”

            “…Surprise me.” None of those interest her in the slightest, but they may at least be enough to distract her for the next few hours, or however long it will take.

            She hands Ryland the magazine on top. Cosmo.

            In other words, complete garbage, she thinks. Just about all of their advice is nonsense. Still, she joins you in paging through the magazines. Nobody is really able to concentrate on them, but you all pretend to anyway for lack of anything else available.

            The silence feels stifling to Ryland, and every now and then her mind wanders back to the trial and her breath speeds dangerously. So far she manages to slow it every time, but a couple of times you’ve noticed and looked at her with concern.

            Eventually, you’re called into the courtroom. You and your best friend put down your magazines and go in, you to the witness stand and her to the audience.

            Ryland looks at Demi. “You aren’t going to watch?”

            “No. I don’t want you to have to be out here by yourself.”

            Ryland’s pride is rather sensitive at the moment, and that answer wounded it again. “I am not a child. I am perfectly capable of handling myself,” she retorts.

            “I know that,” she assures Ryland calmly, as though Ryland hadn’t just snapped at her. In such a high-stress situation, Demi is hardly going to hold it against her. “But just because you _can_ doesn’t mean you _have to_.”

            She is surprised to hear Demi echoing the same sentiment you’ve told her before. Maybe you learned it from Demi. It seems likely to Ryland that that is the case, because it isn’t a sentiment anybody has offered her until the two of you. Particularly in light of it, Ryland isn’t going to be so stubborn as to insist Demi go in just for the sake of pretending she doesn’t need the support. If you didn’t have your best friend there, maybe it would be different, because Ryland wouldn’t want you to lack support in there either. But you do have your best friend, so for now, she decides to give in on the matter. “If you insist.” Her tone is a little too cool for someone as grateful for the help as she truly is, but it’s too late to take it back now.

            It’s clear that Demi wants to say something, but for now she decides not to. She wants to tell Ryland that she shouldn’t push away the people who are just trying to help her, but she knows that it’s something Ryland is working on and struggling with, so for the time being it seems like something better to let go. If the pattern continues, she’ll address it when the time feels right.

            Ryland resumes her reading, so Demi does the same. When Ryland finishes her magazine, she picks up a fashion magazine next. Most of her wardrobe decisions for important events are actually made by designers, her agent, and so on, but it’s important for a celebrity to know what’s fashionable at any given point. Just as she starts in on the magazine, however, she notices Demi looking at her. She looks back, raising one eyebrow in a silent question.

            She hesitates briefly, which isn’t like her. Ryland immediately recognizes that as a bad sign. “Have you told her about… all of the things you mentioned earlier?”

            Her heart begins to race again. Looking down at the magazine instead of Demi, she smooths down a dog-eared corner of one page. She knows exactly what Demi’s referring to, and she knows that Demi is probably aware that she has yet to tell you. And, of course, just as painfully aware that she is that the press is likely to mention it and that you’ll find out from them if she doesn’t tell you first. “Aren’t we not supposed to discuss my testimony here?” she asks, buying herself time.

            “We could go outside,” she offers, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door.

            “Merci, mais non.” She can feel the tension in her body, and she can’t get it to relax. She really doesn’t want to talk about it. But when she sees Demi soften, clearly about to say more about the subject, she interrupts. “I know I need to, considering the damn press will undoubtedly have no respect for my privacy,” she spits out, bitter. She hates this feeling. The feeling that, right now, her façade is the only thing that is protecting her from complete and total vulnerability. It isn’t even one of strength, although she tries to pretend it is. It’s just anger.

            “I know it’s hard,” she begins.

            It feels like her heart is trying to break free, and her chest is getting tight, and she quickly interrupts again. “Stop. Just–” She doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know where she was going with that statement. All she knows is that she can’t stand anymore of this kindness and sympathy that she feels she’s getting only because she’s the ‘victim,’ and she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want that at all. She feels sick and decides that she needs to get some space. She stands abruptly. “I am going to the restroom.” She turns to Demi sharply before adding, “I am fine. Do not follow me.”

            Demi knows quite clearly that Ryland is anything but fine, but she also understands the need for space. As such, she doesn’t object or try to follow, although she does watch which direction Ryland goes so that she can check on her if too much time passes.

            Ryland walks around until she finds the nearest restroom. Once she’s found one, she enters the stall furthest from the door and leans against the wall, hands covering her face as she just tries to breathe. Her chest gradually loosens, but she’s too busy fighting off the panic to force back the tears she has been refusing to shed for weeks now. She feels ridiculous and pathetic. Why has she become so weak? She hates it. She loathes it. There is a part of her that wants to lean on the support that has been offered her, and she can’t stand it. Does she ever learn?

            Her fans are going to hear about her panicking in the middle of court. Everybody will, and she’s sure they’re going to be as disgusted by it as she is. She is Ryland Lumière, Euro-talent winner and sixth in line to the throne. She should be better than this.

            She refuses to give in and let herself cry. Even as the tears are rolling down her cheeks, she fights them as much as she can. She’s sick of feeling weak. She’s sick of feeling vulnerable, of being the victim. She’s sick of all of it.

            And what is she supposed to do? She’s never going to get her reputation back. There is no doubt in her mind that she has destroyed what was left of the Lumière family’s honor, and further tarnished that of the royal family. And on top of that, she feels she has let down every single fan who has looked up to her.

            She can’t take this. She just wants everything to _stop_. She wants to make it all stop, but she doesn’t know how. Her hands clench into fists, her nails digging painfully into her palms. Though it isn’t her intention, she honestly wouldn’t care right now if she drew blood. It isn’t herself that she wants to bring pain to, though; she has had enough of that. No, if she had her way, she might like to strangle the bastard who stalked and assaulted her. Maybe vengeance would bring her comfort. If nothing else, it would bring her peace of mind and safety, she thinks. And strength.

            It isn’t as though she would actually act on such a thought, though. Murder is hardly a better example for her fans than weakness. The idea of him ceasing to exist isn’t an entirely unpleasant one, but it’s something that she knows is ethically better to remain only a figment of her imagination. She just… wants him to suffer as he has made her suffer.

            She doesn’t feel strong enough to stand, but she refuses to crumble. Certainly not here, in the public restroom. So she keeps standing, no matter how hard her horrible weaknesses grip her, forcing her to sobs that she can’t hold back anymore. It’s the first time since breaking down in front of the press that she has cried, and she’s helpless against the tears. She hates feeling helpless, now more than ever. It’s just like _that_ … being unable to do anything to prevent what’s happening.

            _Je suis un pathétique être humaine qui est ne vaux rien. Faible. Dégoûtant. Je ne veux pas vivre. Not like this._

            “Ryland.”

            She hadn’t even noticed Demi coming in or approaching the stall, and now she’s faced with a feeling of humiliation, knowing that Demi has heard her crying.

            “I know you asked me not to follow, but you’ve been gone a while. I got worried.”

            She’s sick of opening up. Sick of ‘talking about her feelings.’ Sick of feeling pathetic and weak and horrible. She says nothing.

            “I’m sorry if I pushed earlier. It was a bad time to mention it.”

            She wants Demi to stop apologizing. Ryland is sick of everybody acting like she’s fragile, and she wants to scream.

            “…Ryland? Can you hear me?”

            She refuses to respond. Like maybe if she doesn’t say anything for long enough, Demi will leave her alone.

            The wordlessness settles over them for a while. It isn’t silence, which makes it even worse in Ryland’s eyes, because the only sound is her sobbing. Demi’s voice is soft as she finally says, “Well… either way, I’m staying, alright? You don’t have to talk about it. I won’t push.”

            Demi remains true to her words. Ryland doesn’t say anything, and Demi doesn’t try to prompt her to. Neither say anything for a long time, just waiting. Eventually, Ryland’s tears seem to run out. She still says nothing, disgusted with herself, drowning in humiliation and self-loathing. She’s sure she looks like as much of a mess as she feels like, too – her makeup probably running, because there’s only so much waterproof works, and a red face. She tears off some toilet paper to wipe at one of her wet cheeks and throws it into the toilet in disgust when it comes away with mascara on it.

            At some point, ideally before you’re done testifying, she wants to make herself presentable. But she doesn’t want to exit the stall and be seen as she is now, even by Demi. For now, she turns and presses her palm against the wall, then her forehead against the back of her hand. She’s breathing just fine, but she isn’t even sure she wants to. She feels like she’s drowning.

            The silence lingers. After a while, the door opens again. _Merde_. Now you’ve caught her.

            “Demi?” you ask.

            “Hey.” Demi’s response is simple, but the silent glances she gives the locked stall explain at least the basics of what you need to know. Then she says, “I’ll leave you two to talk. …Unless you’d rather I stay, Ryland?”

            Once again, Ryland doesn’t answer.

            You ask Demi to let your best friend know that you’ve found Ryland and are going to stay with her for a while, since the two of you split up to find her and Demi.

            “Sure thing,” Demi agrees before leaving.

            You come closer to the stall, leaning against the door from your side. The lock of the stall door clatters.

            “Testifying sure is stressful,” you say softly. You know that as hard as it was for you, it must have been dozens of times harder for Ryland, though. “But hey, we’re both done now. We’ve just gotta wait for a few other people, and then that bastard will be thrown in prison where he belongs.”

            Probably. Hopefully. Perhaps. She can’t forget about her cross-examination and the uncertainty that comes from it.

            You hesitate, wondering how long it’s been since she’s said a single word. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

            “No,” she finally responds.

            It’s not what you hoped to hear, but you’re glad she’s finally said something. “Okay. Then… do you want to come out? Or let me in?”

            “ _No._ ”

            Her tone is sharp. The lock clatters again as you pull away. You know it isn’t personal and so you shouldn’t be hurt, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t.

            She balls her hands into fists as the sound gives away your movement, and she surmises that you’re hurt. She ruins everything, doesn’t she? Hurting you is a grave offense, and it isn’t even the first time she has committed it. She wants to apologize to you for being so worthless, as she feels she is, but the words won’t come. She should have broken up with you when the stalking first began. Then you never would have been targeted, and she wouldn’t be hurting you by pushing you away. Once, but then not anymore. She wonders if it’s not too late to do something. Maybe you would be better off without her in your life. The thought is a little frightening as she wonders how far ‘gone’ would be ideal, but it still lingers. She used to feel like this sometimes before, back when the world was cold and empty during her time in the seafood restaurant. Now a thought flits through her mind wondering if she should have gone through with it then.

            She stays silent, waiting for you to give up on her and walk away. Expecting that, eventually, you’ll get tired of dealing with her, tired of being patient, tired of being pushed away. But you don’t. You stay right where you are, because you don’t see it that way at all. You love her, and you don’t mind at all supporting her through this, even when it gets a little hard sometimes.

            After a while, she starts to wonder if you really might stay. A silent sigh passes through her lips as she acknowledges that she’s going to look childish if she keeps staying there. “Could you… look away? I need a mirror. My makeup… needs some retouching.” It sounds silly, but she wants to try to salvage whatever shreds of ‘dignity’ she can.

            “Oh. Of course.” You close your eyes, turning your back to her stall. “Okay. My eyes are closed. Just let me know when I can open them.” It feels a little silly to you, too, but you know how important Ryland’s image is to her. If this makes her feel a little better about opening up, as you hope she will, then you don’t mind at all.

            Reluctantly, Ryland exits the stall. A furtive look in your direction reveals that you’re staying true to your word, so she goes to the sinks. She hates the way she looks – weak, pathetic in her eyes. It isn’t her. She doesn’t want it to be. Is this who she’s become? With a wet paper towel and a little soap as substitute for proper makeup remover, she scrubs angrily at her face. By the time her face is clean and dry, her cheeks are sore and red from it, and it’s with quite a bit of frustration that she throws the paper towel into the trash before reapplying her makeup. Her eyes are still red, and no amount of makeup can really hide that.

            Once she’s finished with that, she tells you, “You can open your eyes now.”

            You turn toward her, and your heart aches when you see her face. “How are you feeling?”

            Ryland pauses. Maybe it would be better to lie to you. To tell you that it was a brief thing and now she’s feeling better and she’s ready to go back to normal. Or maybe the best option is to break up with you, and then you won’t have to worry about her anymore.

            “Stupid question,” you say, apologetic. You come closer and offer a hug, but when Ryland’s only response is to avert her eyes, you let your arms fall back to your sides. “Hey, it’ll be over after today. The… having to think about him and all that.”

            “No, it will not. I will still have the press talking about it, and my fans disappointed, and my reputation in with the rubbish…” And the weakness she always feels, and having hurt you, and the flashbacks and panic attacks.

            “I know,” you admit. You wish you could disagree with her, but you know she’s right. “I’m sorry.”

            Everybody is ‘sorry.’ Apologizing for whatever they believe may have damaged her apparently now oh-so-sensitive feelings. “Stop apologizing to me. I’m not fragile,” she snaps. It feels like a pathetic, ridiculous, and rather blatant lie, and she hates that it isn’t the truth.

            You almost start to apologize, but quickly are able to stop yourself. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I know you’re not fragile, Ryland. You’re really strong, okay?”

            She holds back a bitter laugh, knowing all it would do is trouble you. Instead, she gives no response. She thinks about nodding to pretend she agrees with you, but she feels like the least she can do is be honest.

            “I love you.” It’s clear that she doesn’t feel strong right now, but that’s okay. Sometimes that happens. It’s important to you to make sure she knows you love her no matter what.

            She truly doesn’t feel that she deserves it. “I love you, too.”

            “We’ll get through this.”

            She isn’t so sure. She isn’t even completely sure if it’s best that she does. Ryland’s gaze drops, unable to look you in the eye. “Perhaps– Perhaps it would be better if we… did not.” Her voice trembles. “I think we should break up.”

            Fear strikes you, not sure if she really means it. It doesn’t even cross your mind that there’s any way she could be thinking of anything more than just breaking up. “Hey… Hey, Ryland, what?” You try to blink away tears, but it only causes them to fall.

            She kisses you on the cheek. “Je suis tellement désolé. But this will be the last time that I hurt you.” With that, she quickly walks out of the bathroom.

            When you recover from your shock, you start to chase after her, but she has already disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: self-hatred, suicidal ideation


	12. I Need Someone

            Ryland knows that wherever she hides out in the courthouse, one of you would eventually find her, and leaving would require her to walk past the waiting area where Demi and your best friend likely are, so they would know. Her first move was to go downstairs to the basement with the court library, at least long enough to dodge you when you emerge from the bathroom. The library floor is carpeted, so the click of her heels on the floor won’t give her away.

            It’s as she’s looking around the library, deep in the shelves, that she notices a back exit. Perfect. If she can get out and to the car before you’ve told the others that she’s missing, or before they stop searching the courthouse, nobody should notice her leaving.

            As much as she wants to know the trial’s verdict as soon as it’s announced, rather than having to wait until it comes in the mail or if she’s lucky someone texts it to her, it seems more important that she avoid you. She’s sure that if you aren’t already aware you’re being pushed away, as soon as you tell Demi, she’ll figure that out. If you were to find her and try to get her to talk about it instead, and try to convince her that you don’t want her to push you away even if it’s supposedly for your own good, she’s afraid that she would cave.

            She leaves through the back exit and gets to her car, grateful that the press are still inside trying to gobble up whatever bits of information they can get there. Once she’s in her car, she decides just to go home. She’s probably not really in any condition to be driving, but she really doesn’t care right now.

            Meanwhile, you search down all the corridors and look in all the women’s restrooms, but you can’t find any sign of Ryland. You look in the library, but little do you know you were several minutes too late with that guess. Eventually, you go back to the waiting area, rejoining Demi and your best friend.

            “Where’s Ryland?” Demi asks, noticing the absence.

            You look away. “I don’t know. She… broke up with me, and then just ran off. I’m worried…”

            She nods. “We should find her. Where have you looked?”

            You tell them of your search. In short, you’ve looked everywhere.

            “Alright, let me try calling her.” It’s obvious that she would be unlikely to answer her phone if you called, if she broke up with you, but maybe if it’s Demi. It’s a long shot, but she tries anyway.

            Ryland hears her phone go off from inside her purse, but she ignores it. She’s still driving anyway, but even if she were at home, she wouldn’t answer it.

            It rolls over to voicemail. “Hey, Ryland, it’s me, Demi. Could you call me back when you get this? Thanks.”

            She didn’t answer, then. You’re getting even more worried about her. “What do we do now?”

            “Let’s try looking around here one more time while we wait to see if she’ll call me back.”

            You nod. The two of them stand and, with Demi leading the way, you begin to search.

            “So… she just broke up with you, out of nowhere?” your best friend asks.

            Having not really thought it over yet, you do so before answering. “I think she still feels guilty for bringing me into this. Even though obviously I don’t think it’s her fault at all… and I _want_ to help her…” You shake your head. “But I really don’t get why she would do that _now_. I mean, we’re safe now. As long as they find him guilty, this nightmare is going to be over.”

            “But it’s not,” Demi says. “Not for her, at least. She’s gone through something extremely traumatic. Just because the trial is over and he’s in prison won’t mean she isn’t still affected by it.”

            “Yeah, I know that. I wouldn’t expect otherwise. But I don’t get how that’s ‘hurting me,’ or what benefit breaking up with me would have. –I mean, I know she must have done it because of that. It’s what she said, and anyway… she told me she loved me like five seconds before breaking up with me. I just don’t get it.”

            Demi thinks she understands, but she wonders if her explanation will make sense. “Have you ever had a time where you and your best friend are both really stressed out or upset, and you want to talk to her but you don’t want to bother her with your stress on top of hers?”

            “Yeah.”

            Good, then hopefully this will make sense. “I think what she’s feeling is similar. We know that Ryland doesn’t like to open up to people. Maybe she feels like letting you in on her problems is a burden to you.” The thought crosses her mind that maybe it’s also easier than telling you that he put his hands on her, but it isn’t her place to say that.

            You mull that over a while. It’s true that it isn’t easy to support someone through such difficult things sometimes, but you’ve never seen it as a burden. Did you say something that made her think you see it that way? You can’t think of anything like that… Maybe there was a misunderstanding somewhere? However it happened, you need to talk to her so you can get this resolved. “So… do you think she’ll listen if I tell her that I don’t feel that way at all? Because I don’t.”

            “I don’t know if she will or not, but I think it’s worth trying.”

            You nod. That figured out, you try to focus harder on figuring out where Ryland could have gone. You’ve checked every nook and cranny of the courthouse by this point, including the library, from which she’s long gone by now. It then occurs to you: “Do you think she could have left?”

            “Maybe. Let’s look for her car.”

            You all go out to the parking lot. Sure enough, Ryland’s car is missing from the lot. You breathe out a slow breath, frustrated and worried. Where could she have gone? You know just as well as she did that she’s in no emotional state to be driving, but unlike her, you very much care about that. “She’s not going to answer my calls,” you say, looking to Demi. You know her well enough to be sure of that. She just broke up with you, after all. Whatever the reason, there’s no way she’s going to be willing to talk to you just yet. At least not enough to answer her phone. You want to talk to her about what happened, but most importantly, first you just want to make sure she’s safe.

            Demi nods, understanding your line of thinking. She calls Ryland and waits, but it rolls over to voicemail. She could hang up and call again, but there’s the possibility that Ryland is still driving, and she doesn’t want to add another distraction. “Hey, Ryland. It’s Demi. Could you call me back when you get this? …I won’t make you talk. We just want to make sure you’re safe. You can even just text us. Just let us know, okay? Hope to hear back from you soon.”

            Fear is stirring in you viciously, afraid she could have gotten into an accident.

            It doesn’t go unnoticed by your mentor, though. “She might still be driving. Or just not by her phone. For now, why don’t we go back to your place or somewhere and see if she calls back? If not, we can go to her house to check on her.”

            You nod. You’re well aware that you’re not going to be able to relax in the slightest until this has been resolved, but you know that Demi’s suggestion is the most you can reasonably do. There’s no point in going to her house when you don’t even know if she’ll be there. And if she’s not, maybe she would just be on her way or something. Something that totally doesn’t require the amount of worrying that you’re doing.

            Meanwhile, Ryland is, in fact, at home. She’s lying in bed, hoping to fall asleep so she can forget about everything for a while, when her phone rings. Knowing it’s certain to be you or Demi, she doesn’t even bother looking at it. She keeps it near because her phone is somewhat of a security blanket right now, but she doesn’t feel like talking to anyone.

            She remembers some words of her therapist: “ _Call me if you need me._ ” Part of her knows that her therapist would consider her present state to be an example of needing her, but she still doesn’t want to call. Is she even worth the help? She knows what you, Demi, or her therapist would insist, but that doesn’t mean she agrees. It seems to her that all she has done lately is hurt and worry you and Demi. Especially you. You more than anyone.

            And on top of that, she feels completely pathetic for it. You’re the one and only person who has ever seemed to care for her so unconditionally. Even her own family, in all their concern for reputation, has always wanted her to fit a certain mold. Always happy, always smiling in case any press came around. Always looking her best, even when she was exhausted and numb from trying to balance a soul-sucking job and her shitty high school where she had no friends, and no time to make any even if there had been anyone open to it. When she got her first girlfriend, they wanted her to do everything she could to hide it from the press, lest people who were less than accepting (much like them) find out and it bring more shame to the family. And what had she done now? Undoubtedly, or at least so she thinks, everybody in France and Italy thinks the Lumière family is nothing but a bunch of screw-ups who reflect terribly upon the main branch of the royal family.

            On top of that, now she’s pushed you away too. For your own good, because you deserve better than to be hurt and made to worry and burdened. Hell, you deserve better than her, especially now. She feels broken, and she isn’t sure she can ever be repaired, but she knows you would take it upon yourself to try, and that it would be another source of stress for you. It would be better if you moved on.

            She’s certain she has let her fans down, too. Fans idolize celebrities, and now she has broken that by being weak. Nobody is going to look up to her anymore. You and Demi talked about how she could recover from it, but that would require her to be able to pick up the pieces and put herself back together again, and honestly she doesn’t think she can do that.

            Singing is her life. If she can’t do that anymore, and if she’s as worthless as she feels, and if nobody could ever love her again and even if they did they would deserve better, she can’t think of a single reason to live anymore. The last time she felt this way, the only thing that kept her going was that she knew her parents relied on her paycheck in addition to their own. She was pulled from it only when she saw that apple and knew she was meant for better things. But now, she’s sure she has screwed up those better things. All of them. She doesn’t see any coming back from this.

            She presses her hands over her face, wishing for sleep to take her, but she’s never really been one for being able to nap in the middle of the day. She just wants anything to stop feeling this way. Thinking back to earlier, she remembers the slightly, quite strangely comforting in a sense feeling of her nails sinking painfully into her palms. She quickly shakes the idea, though, because the most it would be is a temporary distraction anyway. Same for alcohol. She doesn’t really want something that will only take the pain away for a few hours. It will just come crashing back after whatever she would do wore off. Anyway, as a celebrity, she’s seen the effects of addictions. She knows that ultimately they will only bring her more pain, and she already doesn’t feel like she can handle what she’s already in.

            Her mind wanders to what it would be like to just stop feeling. To stop… being.

            Since she can’t sleep, she does have the urge to put her feelings into lyrics, although they wouldn’t be anything she could ever bring herself to sing. But what’s the point? In addition to the fact that she struggles with the idea of singing anything truly personal, she can’t see anybody wanting to listen to her anymore anyway.

            She doesn’t know what to do with herself. At least when she was working in that restaurant, she was just about always busy. Busy and exhausted, and young enough that her internal clock didn’t enforce a schedule of only sleeping at night. She feels exhausted right now, too, but it isn’t exactly the type that comes from a lack of sleep. It’s more of an emotional exhaustion.

            Ryland spends a while just laying there, dark thoughts consuming her. Eventually her phone rings again. She thinks about looking at it. Even thinks about talking to Demi, if she can do so without you anywhere near the conversation. But the effort of moving feels like too much. Her body feels too heavy. Her arms are around her pillow, and all she wants to do is to press closer into it. She feels rather like she would prefer it to be a human, but that’s the sort of cuddling that can typically only be received in a relationship, and anyway, she knows that she’s in no place to be able to handle being touched sexually. She had hoped that someday she would be able to with you again, because she trusts you, but now that seems off the table. And if she hasn’t been able to with you, it goes without saying that she wouldn’t be able to handle it with a stranger who she hasn’t built up trust with yet.

            It’s almost bitterly hilarious. There are two things she used to consider herself good at: singing, and seduction. Now she doesn’t think anybody would want to hear her sing anymore, and she knows she wouldn’t be able to take the latter anywhere, because the flashbacks would be too much.

            She finally manages to roll over onto her other side, and then to reach for her phone. Two missed calls from Demi. Three voicemails, too. She sighs, not really feeling like listening to them, but she does anyway.

            “ _First unheard message: ‘Hey, Ryland, it’s me, Demi. Could you call me back—’ Message deleted. Next unheard message: ‘Hey, Ryland. It’s Demi. Could you call me back when you get this? …I won’t make you talk. We just want to make sure you’re safe—’ Message deleted. Next unheard message: ‘Ryland, it’s Demi again. We’re really worried—’ Message deleted. To check erased messages—_ ”

            She ends the call, but does debate calling Demi back. After some deliberation, she decides to text her instead. “ _I’m safe._ ” Is she, really? She sends the message, but she still has doubts in the back of her mind as to whether it’s the truth, considering the thoughts that have been running through her mind.

            The text receives a response almost immediately. “ _That’s a huge relief. Are you at home? Do you want to talk?_ ”

            “ _Yes to the first question. No to the second. Be there for the girl who’s just been broken up with._ ”

            This time, there’s a bit of a pause. Demi doesn’t know what to say to that. Right now, even though the maybe-break-up hurts, you’re far more worried about Ryland than preoccupied with that. And anyway, you all know that the pain of a break-up doesn’t compare to what she’s going through. Ryland needs the support more than you do, without a doubt, but Demi knows she wouldn’t want to hear that directly. “ _She has her best friend. I’m here for her too, but I’m also here for you, if you’ll let me._ ”

            Ryland pauses a while. She definitely doesn’t feel she should take Demi up on the offer, but what then? She mentally shakes her head. It’s better for everyone involved, she thinks, if she keeps her distance. “ _That isn’t necessary,_ ” she starts to write, but she deletes it and puts her phone back to sleep. At that rate, better not to reply at all.

            Demi waits a while for a response before deciding she probably isn’t going to get one. At least Ryland did contact her, though. Having relayed to you and your best friend that Ryland said she is safe and at home, she adds, “She still doesn’t want to talk about it, it seems. But at least she’s safe.”

            You nod, but you’re still really worried. She might be safe, yeah, but you know she isn’t okay. You consider calling her, but you know she won’t answer. This entire time, it’s seemed like if she’ll talk to anyone it’s you or Demi. If she’s not willing to talk to Demi, she probably won’t talk to you, either. Especially considering what she said at the courthouse. But… that’s all the more reason you want to talk to her. You shake your head. “I’m gonna try to call her. I know she probably won’t answer, but… I can leave a voicemail at least.”

            “Okay.” She isn’t even sure whether Ryland will listen to your voicemail, but she doesn’t think it will hurt. It seems to her that Ryland could use all the reassurance she can get, and you all want her to know that she isn’t alone.

            You call her, going to your room so you’ll have more privacy. It’s really just a show, since in the small apartment you know they can still hear you, though. Sure enough, the call goes to voicemail. “Ryland? …It’s me. Um… listen, I know you might not want to talk or anything right now, but I just… really want you to know that I’m here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone. –I was thinking, and… if the reason you broke up with me is because you’re worried that talking to me about things is burdening me, you don’t need to worry about that. I don’t feel burdened at all. I love you and I want to help.” You run a hand through your hair. “Just… I don’t know. If you hear this and want to talk, you can still call or text me anytime. Okay? …I guess that’s all I can really say for now. I hope you’ll consider it.” You wonder how to end the call before deciding to assure her, “I love you. Bye.” With that, you hang up. It’s the same way you would have done so while the two of you were together, which perhaps makes it feel a little off now that you’re supposedly broken up, but honestly, you don’t really believe that she actually wanted that.

            Ryland almost deletes your message without even listening to it, but decides to save it for later. She can’t quite bring herself to listen to it though. Not when she knows she’s hurt you again. At least being broken up, that means she can’t hurt you anymore… Eventually, you’ll move on and you won’t care so much anymore.

            _And soon I’ll be all alone again._

            Finally, she decides to call her therapist. As she presses ‘call,’ she isn’t sure whether she’s hoping her therapist picks up, or doesn’t.

            But her therapist had known that a crisis was entirely possible for her today with the hearing, and so made a point to keep an eye on her phone when she wasn’t with other clients. She picks up after only a couple of rings. “Hello, this is Francis.”

            Her mouth goes dry, suddenly unsure how to have this conversation. “Hello. This is Ryland,” she manages, her voice sounding awkward and distant to her own ears.

            “Ryland, hi. What’s going on?”

            They both know she’s already got a pretty good idea even without asking, but the calm way she speaks is somehow reassuring nonetheless. “I—I had my testimony and it was a disaster. I broke up with my girlfriend so I can stop burdening her. Francis, I can’t… I don’t know why I…” Her voice breaks as she trails off, struggling to confess the painful thoughts that are lurking in her mind.

            “I’m glad that you called me. I know it’s not easy to reach out, especially when things are at their hardest.”

            Wiping at her eyes, Ryland nodded, though quickly realized the gesture was pointless over the phone. “…Yes. Thank you.”

            After a while of silence, her therapist looks at the day’s schedule. “I have an opening at 4 today. Would you like to come in?”

            She doesn’t want to need it, but she acquiesces. Just knowing that could be upcoming makes her head feel clearer, though she doesn’t entirely understand why. “Please.”

            “Okay. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. I do want to check though, are you able to be safe until our appointment?”

            Is she that transparent, or is her therapist just that perceptive? “Yes.” Despite her thoughts, Ryland knows how people are often impacted when public figures die by suicide, and she knows that it would hurt the people around her as well. Part of her doesn’t want to stay safe, but she knows she needs to. She closes her eyes. “May I bring my girlfriend with me? I believe… she needs to know some of the things I haven’t had the courage to tell her.”

            “Of course. Absolutely, use your support system. …Is there anything else I can do for you right now?”

            “No, mais merci.”

            “Okay. If you need anything else, please feel free to call me.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Of course. I’ll see you at 4.”

            “See you at 4,” Ryland echoes. After ending the call, she continues to sit in silence for a while, not quite feeling ready to call you. She knows she’ll need to apologize, and she’s frustrated with herself for creating another thing to apologize to you for. For hurting you again. No matter how she looks at it, she feels you would be better off without her, but… she knows you wouldn’t agree with that statement.

            Meanwhile, you’re still with your best friend and Demi, just as worried. Even half an hour later, it comes as an immense relief when your phone rings and you see it’s Ryland calling. Jumping up, you motion to your room again so that you can have a little bit of privacy. “Ryland!”

            The relief in your voice pains her. Has she really made you worry all this time? “Je suis désolé. For earlier.”

            “It’s okay. I know you didn’t have bad intentions, and you’re going through a lot right now.”

            Still feeling guilty, Ryland bites her lip. “Can you come over? I scheduled an extra session with my therapist for 4 and I would like for you to come with me.”

            “Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

            “Thank you, Mon Amour,” she murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: self-hatred, suicidal ideation


	13. Thank the Heavens That You Stayed

            “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice,” Ryland says softly, once you and her therapist have finished introductions.

            “Not at all – I’m glad you reached out, and that I was able to,” Francis answers.

            A brief silence hangs, Ryland aware that she needs to talk about what’s on her mind but struggling. “I’m not sure where to start.”

            “I imagine you’re probably feeling pretty overwhelmed after the trial,” she says, her voice gentle.

            Ryland nods. Overwhelmed feels like an understatement. Certainly, the empty, cold, lonely days of her time at the seafood restaurant were just as painful as this, and she had made it through those. Yet, that was before she had established her career. Sure, she had been in the spotlight as a member of the royal family, but the Lumières had naturally never received as much attention as the King and Queen. When they did come to the center of attention, it was focused on Ryland’s parents, not her – she was just a child whose parents had lost their fortune.

            Now, she feels she needs to redeem herself not only in the eyes of the French and Italian people who knew her family, but also in the eyes of the entire world. After all… “I panicked. Right in front of everybody.” She averts her eyes. “After making a fool of myself in front of the press again, I am sure my once-fans are now going to be…” _disappointed_ “…seeing me in a different light.”

            “Why would they see you in a different light?”

            The words catch in Ryland’s throat, and she unconsciously looks to you for reassurance.

            You want to comfort her, to do something – anything – to help her feel better, but you know that there’s little you can do. You take her hand and squeeze it gently, glad when her tense posture relaxes slightly.

            “I feel like I’m letting them down. By not being stronger.”

            Francis thinks a moment, then decides to turn it to you. She calls out your name and asks what you think about that.

            You have to think that over for a few seconds before feeling you have a satisfactory answer. “It’s true that people can be cruel sometimes. But your real fans, they’ll understand. And maybe, maybe it will help someone else feel less alone. Like how Demi has inspired so many people talking about the stuff she’s been through.”

            She digests that for a while, just thinking it over. It’s true that many people admire Demi for specifically that reason, and Demi hadn’t always had it together in the spotlight either. There are still people who held against her actions or words from when she was unwell, but… there are also people who have voiced how much it has helped them to have a public figure openly disclosing such struggles.

            Ryland never wanted to be that way. She had just wanted to be a singer. But sometimes, things just… turn out the way they turn out, she supposes. Maybe that would be a way to make the best of a terrible situation.

            “There’s something else I haven’t had the courage to tell you,” she says quietly, looking into your eyes for a moment before it becomes too intense and she looks away. She removes her hand from yours, wrapping her arms loosely around her body. “The reason I haven’t been able to be intimate with you.”

            Your stomach sinks as a bad feeling swells within. You can feel the gravity of her words, and can only guess at where this is going. Part of you wants to stop her, doesn’t want to hear it because hearing it would confirm it to be true – but you wouldn’t do that to her. She needs to be able to voice it, you know that, and so you stay quiet and hope you don’t look as scared as you feel.

            Everything feels far away, like it’s not even real. She’s sure that’s the only reason she finds herself able to continue speaking. “He… The police got there before things went… as far… as… but…”

            “Deep breaths,” you manage to remind her. You had hoped your tone would be soothing, but you can hear your own anxiety in your voice.

            The reminder seems helpful nonetheless, as her shallow breathing gets a little deeper. “He violated me.”

            Tears sting at your eyes, but you hold them back, wanting to be strong for Ryland. “Can I hug you?” you ask, because truly, you have no words right now. You have no idea what to say to that, what could possibly be helpful.

            Instinctively knowing that it will go over better this way, Ryland initiates the hug.

            You put your arms around her slowly, making sure not to touch her waist or shoulders, which you’ve noticed tend to be places that alarm her when touched. “Thank you for telling me. You’re safe now, Ryland. You’re safe.”

            Tears well in her eyes, and she tries to simply believe you and allow herself to be comforted. After a while, she pulls away and looks to her therapist, feeling steadier. “Will I be able to move past this?”

            “Recovery is always possible,” she assures her. “It may take time, but it looks like you have people around you who are understanding.”

            That gets a small smile from Ryland, who nods. She knows without even needing to ask that you will allow her to take the time she needs and won’t pressure her.

            “I’d like to circle back to our conversation earlier,” Francis says gently. “When you said that the two of you had broken up.”

            A pang of guilt runs through Ryland’s chest, but she nods. She looks at you, feeling she owes you an explanation most of all. “If it weren’t for me, you never would have been caught up in something so terrible. I feel as though all I do is bring you pain, and it would be better for you were I not in your life.”

            Your heart aches, though part of you feels a little frustrated at her having tried to make that decision for you. “I want you in my life, Ryland. Even when it’s not easy, even when things are painful. I love you. Please don’t push me away.”

            “Je t’aime aussi. Et je suis désolé. Next time I will talk to you instead of pushing you away.”

            You do your best to smile at her. “Okay.”

            “I do want to talk more about your safety,” Francis circles back, concerned. “Ryland, have you been having any thoughts about suicide?”

            Shifting uncomfortably, she fixed her gaze on the floor. “I would never actually hurt myself,” she promised. “I know how it would affect others.”

            “I’m glad to hear that you won’t act on it. If you start to feel like you’re not sure you can stay safe, what would you do?”

            She thought it over, then looked at you. “I could call one of my friends. Or you. But reminding myself that it will pass is likely sufficient.”

            “Okay.”

            The rest of the session is spent processing the trial and discussing coping skills that could be used between sessions.

            Driving back to her home, both of you remain quiet, the heavy session having exhausted you somewhat. You finally speak up as you’re entering. “Want to watch some cheesy Netflix?”

            Ryland smiles slightly. “I would love to.”

            The two of you sit together on the couch, cuddling a little when Ryland initiates, careful to respect her boundaries and ensure her comfort.

            The process may not be fast or easy, but you know that things will go back to normal eventually. Ryland will be okay again, and all the stronger having overcome this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of sexual assault, mentions of suicidal ideation


	14. Here I Stand, and Here I’ll Stay

            The next afternoon, Ryland received a call. The jury had reached a decision.

            The culprit was declared guilty, and Ryland had never been so relieved to hear a piece of news in her life. It felt like for the first time since the stalking began, she could smile again – a real, genuine smile. It didn’t take away the trauma of what happened, but it helped her to feel just a little bit safer.

            The press did exactly what Ryland had predicted, sharing all the details of her trial with the public, and due to trying to manage her own emotional recovery, she has not spoken to them in months.

            Today, however, is the day she had decided to break her silence. She turns the stories over again and again in her mind, trying to decide the best way to speak of them to her fans, trying to prepare herself for the invasive questions the press may ask her.

            Her nerves are almost palpable, but even if they weren’t, it’s only common sense that she’s worried. You kiss her on the cheek in an attempt to reassure her. The scar still lingers, though the bandage has been off for quite a while now. “You’ll do great.”

            Ryland can only manage an uneasy smile, though she appreciates the reassurance. “I suppose we will find out soon enough.”

            You take her hands in yours. “I know it’s your first time with the press in a while, and I can’t imagine that _not_ being scary. But you’ve practiced, and… You’ve come so far, Ryland.”

            Ryland kisses you, intertwining the fingers of one hand with yours and moving her other to cup your cheek. Your free arm wraps lightly around her waist, keeping her close. In the past few weeks, having been taking it slow, the two of you had been able to be physically intimate again. Much as you would have understood and waited however long she had needed, you know it had been an immense relief to Ryland when she had been able to do that and not get triggered. For her, it had been proof of her progress.

            The truth is that with regards to the incident, she still has bad days once in a while. Days where the memories seek to come crawling up her spine, or her chest begins to tighten at a memory. Those days have become fewer now, though. While still significant when they happen, she has already decided to downplay that aspect when speaking with the press. This interview will already require her to be vulnerable, and she can’t help wanting to preserve some of her image. Maybe someday she will speak out in the way Demi does, but she isn’t ready for that yet.

            The kiss, serving as a pleasant distraction from the worries Ryland has about the interview, is all too soon interrupted. “Ryland, the press is…”

            The two of you separate and look to the doorway, where Demi is standing, presumably having stopped when she saw you kissing. She laughs, genuinely happy that you have been able to support each other through this and come out so strong on the other side. “Well, there’ll be plenty of time for that after the interview.”

            You and Ryland laugh at that as well. “An encore later then, perhaps, Ma Princesse,” Ryland says, kissing the top of your hand before she pulls away entirely.

            “Oui,” you say, speaking one of the very few French words you know.

            Ryland laughs again, hints of genuine joy sparkling in her eyes. “Tu es marveilleux.”

            But with that, she knows it’s time to go face the press. In truth, she hadn’t realized how much more relaxed she had felt with you until now, when she is standing alone, face-to-face with the press.

            She’s practiced for this, though, and stands before them with what appears to be full confidence, taking deep breaths. She doesn’t feel confident at all in this moment, but she will continue to pretend otherwise until it becomes the truth again.

            “So Ryland, this is your first press appearance in a while, isn’t it?” a reporter asks.

            She knows that he is fully aware that it is, and of the reason behind it. It’s typical of reporters to ask things in roundabout ways, though. That said, perhaps this was his way of being considerate and allowing her to take the lead in the beginning, rather than being entirely at the mercy of their questions. She supposes she appreciates that.

            “Oui,” she begins, choosing her words carefully, but making sure not to give a long enough pause that other reports could jump in, thereby stealing her opportunity to introduce the subject herself. “I had some personal matters that required my attention. Personal matters which, while I am sure everyone has already heard of, I would like to be able to speak about firsthand.”

            “Great!” says another. “So, when you say ‘personal matters,’ you’re referring to…”

            “Vrai. My stalking and subsequent assault.” She’s surprised by her own ability to sound so calm as she says the words. Her heartbeat has picked up a little, but she reminds herself that she’s safe now and makes sure she continues to breathe.

            “Would you like to say anything about your last encounter with the press?”

            Actually, she would really like to forget all about that. Not that she could have done that even had they not reminded her, however. “They were present at the court hearing… but I assume that is not what you are referring to.” She had suspected this would come up and prepared accordingly, so she’s far from caught off guard by the question. “That was the day I had just been released from the hospital. I had barely even begun to physically recover, let alone begin emotional recovery.”

            This is where she begins to feel uncomfortable in sharing the aftermath of the trauma. It feels as though it is too personal, and she wants to keep it to herself, or at least within her small circle of trusted people. It’s too late for that, though, and after talking it over with you and Demi, she had concluded that her best option was simply to be upfront about it regardless of the nerves that would result.

            She can’t undo the press that she has received, and people already know far, far more than she would like. But perhaps in making a comeback and admitting what has happened, she can inspire others. Even be a source of strength for anyone who is also recovering from an ordeal. Ryland isn’t so sure she thinks she truly does have such potential, but she’s putting her trust in you and Demi. That hasn’t led her astray so far, and she can only hope that will remain the case.

            “It was at that point that I realized that my… reactions to things were perhaps something that would not go away on their own.” Perhaps only due to her thinking she was going to die and frantically calling her doctor, but she saw no reason to go into quite that level of detail on the subject right now.

            “What did you do then?”

            “I sought help. I cannot – will not – pretend it was an easy thing to do. But I had Mon Amour and Demi to support me as well. With their encouragement, I was able to reach out and…” She realizes that she has been tiptoeing around the actual word _therapy_. She decides to stop doing so, and bring the story from the press back into her own hands. “I entered therapy.

            “At first I was having a great deal of trouble coping with what had happened, which is… what was captured on that day I ran into the press. But having entered therapy, I have come out of it stronger. And that is why I wish to share a song that I wrote, from my upcoming fourth album, with the help of two of the most important people in my life.” She flashes the most confident grin she’s been capable of giving in a long time. A budding confidence that is sincere.

            “Well then! Looks like we’ve got a surprise!” a reporter says into her camera. “Go ahead, then.”

            She takes a deep breath, then begins to sing. It is a song that’s painfully honest, and it has taken her numerous rehearsals to be able to sing it without breaking into tears. She mentally blocks out the press as she sings, transporting herself back to all the conversations she had with you.

            It isn’t a song about the stalking, or the attack itself, but rather of learning to lean on those who care about her. Learning to trust for the first time despite it being in such a difficult context. And finally, knowing that she is loved. The song isn’t blatant in saying any of these things, but it is honest about the feelings stirring in her heart.

            When she has finished singing, her eyes are wet, but there is an honest smile on her lips. She has never allowed herself to be so vulnerable in front of the press, or _anywhere_ , really, until you came into her life. She was skeptical that it would be good to allow such things, and yet… now that she has, she finds it strangely liberating not to have to hide behind such a persona all the time.

            After that, nothing the press throws at her feels all that difficult. She isn’t one to bare all, so she still keeps details to a minimum. But being fairly open with them means that she does not have to worry quite as much about what she says or keeping up appearances, nor coming up with inventive new ways to distract them from subjects she wanted to avoid.

            As soon as Ryland emerges from the press event, you’re there to greet her.

            You beam, and after a pause to ensure you won’t startle her in doing so, you wrap her in a tight embrace. “I’m so proud of you!”

            She laughs softly, holding you close. Though she put in so much work herself, she feels that having been able to get through the pain is largely thanks to your help. She truly fears that she wouldn’t have known how to get through it without the support she received from you, Demi, and your best friend. “I love you.”

            You giggle. “I love you, too,” you say, pulling away just enough to give her a light kiss. “Really, though – Ryland, you’re amazing.”

            “As are you.”

            You hear Demi laugh from the doorway and pull away to look at her as well.

            “I’m so proud of you, Ryland,” Demi says. “I know that took a lot of courage.”

            Ryland smiles. “It was not so difficult, knowing of those who will remain on my side. And I do trust that you are correct – if not about me being an inspiration, at the very least that it will change the minds of those who may have felt disappointed in my recent… well… what they have seen from press reports in the last few months.”

            “You’re making a comeback. No, not everybody will be supportive… but the majority of people will recognize how admirable that is and see how courageous you’ve become.”

            She has to fight a small surge of modesty. Sure, she’s plenty used to compliments, but… until recently, until meeting and opening up to _you_ really, they had always been toward the persona she had put up. Not her genuine self. It’s a sign of allowing that genuine self to be seen, so naturally, it will take some getting used to.

            Truthfully, Ryland is proud of herself. She doesn’t know what the future holds, but even she can see that she has come out of this a stronger person. She had always believed that nothing was more important than the public’s perception of her – of course that’s what she believed, having been taught as much from the time she was a little girl. But now, she has learned that some things were more important. She loathes the circumstances that had led to her finally reaching that realization, but she appreciates the knowledge immensely.

            With a new album coming out soon, and about to go on tour with you and Demi in Asia soon… Ryland finally feels that things are looking up for her. Truly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of panic attacks


End file.
